Into the Wild Blue Yonder
by Spirit Seer
Summary: The Stargate Program is the best-kept international secret...after the national personifications, of course. When SG-1 meets Alfred by accident, they learn about a secret guarded closer than their own. The rules existed to keep the worlds apart, and sometimes, the lines are better left uncrossed. [AU. No pairings. Growing darker. Same story, summary v.3.]
1. Part the First

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia Axis Powers or Stargate SG-1. They belong to their respective owners. I am making no money off of this fanfiction. It is for entertainment purposes only.

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><p><span>Into the Wild Blue Yonder<span>

"So, uh, dude, can I ask you something? It's great spending time on your ship and all—'cause it's cool, and I always think that spaceships are awesome—but I kinda need to get home. Do you have any idea when you can drop me off?"

The alien shook his head slowly but apologetically. "I'm sorry, but I cannot take you back at this current time."

"Aw, why not, dude?" America persisted. "Aren't you one of Tony's friends? 'Cause you look a lot like him." He paused a beat, but before the alien could respond, the nation continued, "And while this is probably his idea of a joke, I was kinda on my way to a World Conference in London. Arthur will never let me hear the end of it if I'm late and my excuse is that I was kidnapped by aliens." He paused for another second, before finishing with a flourish, "Even if it's true."

Sensing an opportunity to speak, the alien replied, "I do not know this Tony of whom you speak. Is he Asgard?"

America thought for a moment. "I don't know," he answered finally. "I mean, he _looks_ like you, but he's never actually told me what he is." He shrugged. "Ah, well, I guess it doesn't matter."

There was a brief moment of silence as they both considered one another.

America broke the silence. "So, if you're not Tony's friend, what's your name? And what are we doing here?"

The alien—an Asgard, he had called himself—inclined his head toward the nation. "I am called Thor. I am a commander of the Asgard fleet." He paused for a second, and then asked, "What is your name, and what species are you? Our computer scanners tell us that you are both human… and yet not human. Of what race are you? You are unlike anything the Asgard has come into contact with."

"My name is Alfred F. Jones," America said proudly. Then he paused, shifting from one foot to the other as he thought. There was no harm in giving his human name, but was it all right to say that he was the personification of a country? To an alien who didn't know Tony? But then again, would the Asgard even know what a personification of a nation was? He did recognize the fact that he was human, so he might have had dealings with Earth before. Just because Tony crashed on Earth recently (well, recent for a nation, anyway) did not have to mean that he was the first, and Tony had implied something like that once…

The alien was waiting. "Of what species do you identify yourself with, Alfred F. Jones?" he (America presumed the Asgard was a 'he,' at any rate) said.

America threw caution to the winds. He'd solve that problem when he got there. "I—"

A whirring sound emanated suddenly from the opposite end of the ship, and America turned in surprise. "What's that?" he exclaimed. Metal rings rose up out of the floor and filled the room with light. "That's so awesome, dude!"

The light disappeared, and the rings descended back into the floor as quickly as they'd come. In their place were four people. They were dressed in camouflage fatigues and equipped with weapons—soldiers from Earth, apparently. In fact, judging by their uniforms, they appeared to be from the United States Air Force. America became excited—they were his citizens! Well, only three of them were his citizens, at any rate. Where was the fourth from?

"Owww…" a man, the oldest, moaned. He rose up slowly from the floor. "You couldn't have cut that rescue a little closer, Thor, old buddy?"

The alien inclined his head toward the newcomers. "O'Neill. I apologize. I had an… unexpected delay."

"What kind of delay?" a lady spoke up, concerned.

As the team rose slowly from the floor, all eyes turned to face the newcomer aboard the ship. "Um, hi?" America greeted. "Who are you guys?" He hadn't had enough time to glean their names, but it was just as well if they told him themselves. And if they gave a fake name, he would know.

Daniel paused for a moment, pushing his glasses further up his nose as he studied the man in front of him. Turning back to his team, he said, "Well, his accent is clearly American. The only question is: Who is he?"

Carter nodded. "He doesn't appear to be NID…" she murmured.

"Indeed," Teal'c agreed.

"Um, hello?" America tried again, waving at them in an attempt to regain their attention. When this failed, he stuck his gloved hands in his jacket pockets, pouting. "Guys?" C'mon, their nation was only asking for their _name_, not their ranks and serial numbers. He could totally find out anything he wanted to know about them on his own, but he wanted to hear the answers from them.

Jack leaned in closer, scrutinizing something. His eyes widened. "Is that a World War II bomber jacket?" he exclaimed incredulously. When all eyes turned on him in surprise, he shrugged, replying, "What? I've always wanted one of those. They look cool."

America smiled. He liked this guy. "It is!" he replied excitedly. "I wear it all the time. I love it." As the comment registered, he feigned ignorance and asked, "Are you Air Force?" The team nodded, and then he exclaimed, "I knew it!" He paused for a second, and then gestured to Thor, asking, "Are you friends with this guy?"

Jack nodded. "Yeah, why?" he asked slowly.

America beamed. "Awesome! I kinda need to get back home. Maybe he'll agree to take me back if you ask him instead."

"And where is 'home' for you?" Daniel asked. He would hate to assume…

"Earth," America responded happily, confirming Daniel's analysis. "Well, my house is outside of New York City, to be exact, but I hang around the White House a lot. I have a room there, too. I also have a house in Texas, California, and Alaska." He shook his head. "That's beside the point, though. I need to get to London. I was on my way there for a meeting when I got beamed up—"

"Whoa, wait a minute," Jack interrupted. "Did you just say that you have a room in the _White House_?"

America froze. He probably shouldn't have said that. "Um, did I say that? I didn't say that."

"No, you did say that," Daniel asserted. "I heard you."

"You heard wrong, then."

"No, I know I heard you say that."

America shook his head. "Did not."

"But I know I—"

"Daniel!" Jack exclaimed. When Daniel turned to O'Neill, the colonel responded, "It's ok. Whatever floats the kid's boat." He turned back to America. "Now, would you _please_ tell me what you're doing here?" He shook his head as he cut the air with his hands. "Actually, scratch that. What's your name, kid? Let's start there."

America blinked for a second, and then said with a grin, "Oh, sorry about that. My name is Alfred. Alfred F. Jones!" He pumped his fist in the air as he declared his name proudly. Then he gestured to them with a grin. "What're your names?"

"I'm Colonel Jack O'Neill of the SGC," Jack said, pointing to himself. He saw America's eyes widen, but O'Neill pointed to Carter and continued before the kid could open his mouth, "This is Major Samantha Carter," he pointed to Daniel, "Dr. Daniel Jackson," and last to the Jaffa, "and this is Teal'c."

His team returned a greeting as America said, "Awesome! Nice to meet you guys." He opened his mouth to speak, but once again, Jack cut him off.

"And, now that we have those niceties out of the way," Jack continued, "would you please tell us _now_ what you're doing here?"

America closed his mouth, the slight pout in his face telling Jack that he was put out by being cut off twice. "I'm asking myself that, too." He shrugged his shoulders, and then he stuck his gloved hands back in his jacket pockets as he grumbled, "Tony's going to get it the next time I see him, though. I swear, if Artie's mad at me because I'm late—"

"Who's Tony?" Carter asked, interrupting the nation.

"Hm?" America came out of his rant. "Oh, Tony's my alien friend. He hangs out at my house a lot. Since he looks like your friend Thor, I thought that this was a prank of his to make me late for my meeting, but apparently, the dudes don't know each other." He sighed.

There was a moment's silence, before Daniel asked, "And who is 'Artie'?"

"Artie—well, ok, his real name's Arthur, I just call him Artie—is a friend of mine who's hosting a meeting in London today. He's never going to let me hear the end of it if I'm late. Which I will be, by the time I get back," he sighed. "I'm pretty sure that I've already missed my flight to London."

Jack turned back to SG-1 as he raised an eyebrow. "What do you think of this guy?" he asked quietly.

Daniel shrugged. "I don't know, Jack. He doesn't seem dangerous, though."

Jack rolled his eyes. "I made that assumption, too. Thanks, Daniel."

Before Daniel could offer a retort, Teal'c offered, "I am not sure what he is, O'Neill, but he is not a Goauld."

"I don't sense a symbiote within him, either," Sam affirmed with a shake of her head.

"And _that_ was the answer to my question," Jack announced. "Thank you."

Sam and Teal'c nodded. Daniel huffed and turned away.

"Hey, guys!" America called. SG-1 turned at the sound of their nation's voice near the podium by Thor. "You all said that you're part of the SGC, right?"

Jack nodded slowly, unsure if the recognition was a good thing or a bad thing. "Yeah…"

"That's so cool!" America exclaimed. "After my old boss told me about you all, I wanted to go check it out, but he always vetoed the idea. He said that y'all were 'too busy to humor me,'" he said with air quotes. "Unfortunately, my current boss feels the same way. I really want to see the Stargate, though," he whined.

SG-1 froze. How did this stranger from Earth know about the Stargate? Then again, what was he doing on the ship at all? But what Jack wanted to know most was—

"Who is your 'boss'?" Sam asked before Jack could.

America grinned. Since these people were part of the SGC, they at least had high enough clearance to know who his boss was! "The President," he replied with a grin.

A moment of stunned silence greeted the nation's words. As the moment passed, America's grin wavered. Did he freak them out?

"Wait, wait!" Jack exclaimed, calling time-out with his arms. He had used that twice today already; this wasn't a good sign. "Your boss is the _President of the United States of America_?"

Understandable question to be reiterated back to him. "Um, yeah?" America replied uncertainly.

"How long has he been your 'boss'?" Daniel inquired.

Weird question. "Um, always…?"

"How long is 'always'?" Teal'c asked.

Bad question. He didn't know if they had high enough security clearance to know that he was a nation, and if he told them, and they didn't, Boss was going to get mad. Well, madder than if he just missed the World Conference meeting in London because he had been (really!) kidnapped by an alien. He might lose his hamburger rights this time. For, like, ever. "Let's go with a few years," Alfred responded evasively.

"And how long is 'a few years'?" Daniel persisted.

"Like, a few years," America replied cheekily.

"But—"

"Gah!" All eyes turned to O'Neill, who had exclaimed as he cut the air for a third time in a time-out gesture. Three times were too many for him. "Let's just stop there, ok, kids? We already know how that road will end."

There were a few collective nods, and then silence.

Surprisingly, Thor spoke up. "If I may, O'Neill."

Jack gestured for him to continue with an exhausted wave. "Of course, Thor," he said.

Thor turned to America, who in turn looked at the alien. "You said that your name is Alfred, did you not?"

America nodded. "I did. What of it?"

"What did you say that your friend's name was again?" Thor asked.

"Tony," the nation replied. "Why? I thought that you said that you didn't know him."

Thor inclined his head. "While you all were speaking, I did some research through the Asgard databases. Apparently, there is record of an Asgard that went to your planet some 30-odd Earth years ago. At the time, there had been talk that the Stargate had been unburied and used. While we were content to leave your species alone, he alone felt that, to ensure that the Goauld had not broken the treaty, he should check on the Stargate. However, contact was lost with him shortly after his arrival, and it was presumed that he perished on the journey. I am curious if he is the 'friend' of which you speak." He paused for a second, and then finished, "After all, as I was on my way to help SG-1, I made the detour toward Earth after picking up an Asgard distress call from your planet. I thought that it was strange, but I sent the rings down toward the approximate coordinates regardless. However, I picked up Alfred instead."

"So _that's_ what happened to me," America exclaimed. "No wonder that light looked familiar earlier." Then he snapped his fingers in realization. "Hey, wait. Tony did say when I first met him that the reason he was stuck on Earth was because his ship crashed. He let Area 51 keep the main ship because he claimed that it wasn't repairable, but he kept the small ship, saying that there was a chance to fix it. However, he's never succeeded. It just takes up space in my backyard in Texas."

America shrugged. "In fact, he was in a particularly bad mood this morning. Apparently, he'd been close to fixing it and when I 'distracted him.' But man, how did I distract him? He was already throwing tools and equipment everywhere when I arrived, and I just went by to tell the dude good-bye before I left to the meeting. I even offered to get him a breakfast taco and a coffee, but the dude just chucked a wrench at my head and cursed something about 'Earthling tools.'" He paused for a second, and then finished, "Although, the lights on the ship did flash momentarily, and he shouted something happily before those—what did you call them?—rings beamed me up. That makes a lot more sense now."

"Wait a moment," Sam interrupted. Jack was happy that it wasn't him for a change. "You have an Asgard and his spaceship in your _backyard_?"

"Apparently so," America replied happily. "He's been rooming with me since he got here. And he blows up my house every now and then," he complained, but then he brightened. "Maybe I should ask the dude for rent, since I can't insure against damages due to aliens. And Prez is getting kinda irritated with having to continuously repair my house due to Tony." He turned to Thor. "Hey, what kind of currency do you use, dude?"

"He has an Asgard staying in his backyard. Of course he does," Daniel repeated, throwing his hands in the air as he turned to Jack. "_Who_ is this guy again?"

"Daniel, as soon as I figure that out for _myself_, I will _happily_ share my answer with you," Jack replied sarcastically.

Daniel turned away with a groan.

A cry of exclamation came from the front of the ship. "Oh, dude, the Earth looks so awesome!" America exclaimed. He had his hands pressed against the glass like a little kid. "I've never gotten to see it from space myself before—this is so cool!"

Sam smiled tiredly. "Well, I don't know who he is, but he's certainly enthusiastic."

Jack sighed, but he offered Thor a tired smile of his own. "Thanks for the ride home, Thor."

"You are welcome, O'Neill," the Asgard replied. "Although, I hope that in the future, you will not find yourselves in a situation where I will have to do so again."

"You and me both, Thor," Jack replied. "You and me both."

"Can you _pleeeeaaaaaase _drop me off in London, dude?" America begged out from his spot by the window. "I—"

Rings surrounded Alfred, and he had disappeared before he had a chance to finish his sentence.

Jack looked at Thor. "Where'd you send the kid?"

Thor blinked. "I put him back where the original coordinates were. Should I have not?"

"No, Thor, that was fine," Jack chuckled. He both wanted and didn't want to see the kid's face when he wound up back home instead of at the 'meeting' place he kept talking about. The kid really drained him of his energy. "Just fine."

Sam spoke up, "Before we go, may I ask you something, Thor?"

"You may, Major Carter."

"If what Alfred said was correct, he's been alive a lot longer than he looks. He doesn't appear to be over 20, but he's obviously _way_ over 30 years old. He appears human, but do you know if he really is?" Or was there possibly an undocumented sarcophagus floating around the U.S. government?

The Asgard shook his head. "I was not able to ascertain that myself. The computer readings showed that he was both human and yet not human."

"And what does that mean?" Daniel asked.

"He has the genetic make-up of a human, but his body does not age like a human's does. In fact, the carbon content in his body declares that he is at least a couple of hundred years old, even if his human cells claim that he is nineteen years old."

Carter gasped. "If he's human, how could he be a couple of hundred years old? How would he be that young without a sarcophagus?" She turned to the team. "I mean, he can't be using one, because he was too… excitable, I guess. He was too _happy_."

"What is he, then?" Teal'c asked.

"I do not know," Thor replied slowly. "However, given that he has existed on your planet for this long and claims your country's leader as his own, I do not believe that he intends your species any harm. It may be in your best interests to investigate the matter. The Asgard will look into this occurrence, however, as well as this Tony that he spoke about. He may indeed be our lost comrade."

"We were going to look into the kid anyway, buddy," Jack said, "but thanks. And thanks again for the ride home."

Thor inclined his head at SG-1. Then the rings activated and transported SG-1 back to the SGC.

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><p><span>AN: So, this was originally supposed to be a one-shot, but it just kept going. I haven't decided if the next couple of chapters are more omake-like or genuine chapters, and while I know where I'd_ like_ to go, I got stuck in the middle somewhere. I'm posting this in the meantime.

Seriously, doesn't Tony resemble an Asgard?


	2. Part the Second

A/N: By popular appeal (and inspiration), here is a second chapter! I am so sorry that it took so long to post it, but thank you for putting up my crazy semester workload. Here is your reward-and there's a surprise at the end!

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia: Axis Powers or Stargate SG-1. They belong to their respective owners. I am making no money off of this fanfiction. It is for entertainment purposes only.

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><p><span>Into the Wild Blue Yonder—Part the Second<span>

"So, General, were you able to get any word about the kid we met on Thor's ship?" O'Neill asked a few days after their briefing session.

General Hammond leveled a look on O'Neill from where he sat behind his desk. "No," he responded shortly, "and I was questioned like you wouldn't believe for even asking. You would think that I was about to be shot."

O'Neill flinched. "Ooo-kay," he drawled out the word. "That it _not_ what I was expecting."

"Me, neither," the general huffed. "Apparently, my security clearance wasn't _high enough_ for it."

"Your security clearance wasn't _high enough_?" O'Neill echoed incredulously. "You run _the freaking_ _Stargate program_!"

"I know." General Hammond nodded, frustrated, and then his desk phone rang. He picked it up. "Yes?" He paused. "Uh-huh." Pause. "Are you serious? Of course, I'll call him right away." He hung up the phone.

"What was that about?" O'Neill asked.

"Apparently, the President wishes to speak to me as soon as possible concerning the Alfred you all met on Thor's spaceship," General Hammond replied, surprised.

"Do you think that we're going to get our answers, or is he going to tell you to stop asking about him?"

General Hammond inhaled deeply and then reached for the red phone. "Well, we're about to find out."

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><p>"<em>He's coming here?"<em>

Jack shushed Daniel. SG-1 was with General Hammond in the briefing room, but noise still carried, after all. (Besides, it was fun to shush Daniel, in return for all the looks he received for needing things explained in simpler terms both on and off of missions.)

"Yes, Dr. Jackson, that is what I said," General Hammond confirmed. "I just came off the phone with the President, who said that, given that this Alfred has already met you all, he has agreed to temporarily raise our security clearances to allow a meeting. Apparently, a part of him was concerned about what had happened with the Tony you mentioned. He felt that, as long as there was apparently an Asgard rooming in Alfred's backyard, he may as well have contact with the SGC, in case Tony wants help getting home later." General Hammond shrugged. "What I don't understand about all of this is why they didn't bring the alien to us years ago and instead left him with this Alfred. Or why, if he is really the alien whose ship resides in Area 51, Alfred is as young as you described."

"Well, the Stargate program has only operated as such recently, sir. Since he arrived so long ago, maybe he fell under their radar. You know, like paperwork that gets buried under new folders on your desk," Major Carter reasoned. "I have no answers as to his age, but that will hopefully be explained when Alfred gets here. When is he coming again?"

"In a few days," General Hammond answered. "Apparently, Alfred is away at a meeting in London. He will come by the SGC after he returns."

Jack nodded. "Yeah, the kid kept talking about a meeting there that he was late for when we were on Thor's spaceship." He chuckled. "He reminded me of, you know," he snapped his fingers repeatedly, "that rabbit from _Alice in Wonderland_…"

"The White Rabbit, Jack?" Daniel supplied dubiously.

"Yeah, that one! _'I'm late, I'm late, I'm late!'_" Jack mimicked.

Carter chuckled. "He reminded me more of a kid during Christmas. He was pressed up against the glass of Thor's spaceship when the Earth came into view."

"His presence was different from an ordinary human's, though," Teal'c reminded.

General Hammond looked toward the Jaffa. "How so, Teal'c?"

Teal'c inclined his head toward the general. "He acted childishly, but he also seemed to be hiding his strength. He appeared younger, but I felt as though I were standing next to someone much older than myself." He paused for a moment, and then added, "Those suspicions were confirmed by Thor."

"Well, Thor did say that this Alfred is supposed to be at least a couple of hundred years old," Hammond acknowledged.

"I felt something slightly different, though," Sam offered. "Yes, he was childish, but I…" She paused, and then added, "When I saw him and he greeted us, I thought of coming home, actually. I had the briefest feeling of being back in my house with my family." She shrugged her shoulders. "It was the strangest thing."

General Hammond weighed Carter's words before turning to the rest of SG-1. "Did any of y'all feel something similar?" he asked.

Daniel nodded. "I felt something similar to Sam."

"I remembered joining the SGC," Teal'c provided. "I thought of the bonds that I have formed while I have been on Earth."

"Yeah," Jack answered. "Although…"

After a second passed, General Hammond prompted, "Yes, Colonel?"

"This may sound silly," Jack continued slowly, "but I remembered the feeling I had when I took my oath at the Air Force Academy. I remembered the feeling of pride and desire to protect my nation." Jack shook his head. "I don't know why I thought of it, but…"

"But what, Colonel?"

"For a second, sir... I felt like I was facing my country again, about to take my oath," Jack finished slowly. "I wanted to say my oath again with my whole heart, to give everything, and then not look back. I don't know where it came from. It was just… strange."

General Hammond stared at O'Neill for a moment. O'Neill shrugged back helplessly. Finally, Hammond sighed. "Well, if the President already knows about him and is willing to allow him to come here, he is hopefully nothing that will endanger this compound or our highest levels of government. We'll add some extra security, though, just in case. Until that day, you're dismissed, SG-1."

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><p>Time passed quickly. Finally, the day arrived that Alfred was due to visit the base.<p>

"How much longer until he's scheduled to show up, again, Jack?"

"For the _third time_, Daniel, he's coming at 1400," Jack complained while they were eating breakfast in the mess hall.

Daniel paused for a moment, and then he said, "You know, I was doing some research earlier, trying to see if there was anything at all about what this guy is."

"Did you find anything?" Sam asked.

"No," Daniel replied slowly. "However, I found some really old legends from various European countries. The common theme was people that never aged that always brought hope to their people."

"Why are you interested in European legends if he claims his ties are to America?" Sam asked.

"Well, he said that he had friends, right? At his meeting in London?" Daniel reminded. "I thought that it would be a good bet that he had European friends who were like him. However, I found something else that was also interesting."

Jack gestured for Daniel to continue. "And what did you find that was 'interesting'?"

Daniel leaned forward excitedly. "I stumbled upon some old Native American legends by accident—from both the United States and Canada. The common theme was a woman described as their people's 'mother'. She never aged, and she always watched over and protected them, giving hope the same way the European legends claimed. However, a second legend claimed that this woman gave birth to two pale children—twin boys. Immediately afterwards, she grew old, and eventually died. She just…" Daniel waved his hands as he searched for the word, finally finishing with, "…disappeared."

"So… these people don't age, die, or… disappear… until they have children?" Jack asked incredulously. "What are they, phoenixes?"

Daniel wrung his hands. "I don't know…. I just thought that, since they were about people who didn't age, as seems to be the case with our friend, that it was interesting."

"But what are these people, then?" Sam persisted. "These 'bringers of hope'?"

Daniel shook his head. "I don't know," he said, heaving a frustrated sigh. Then he looked up at Jack hopefully. "But the feeling described in the legends is just like what we all described feeling! That has to mean _something_."

Jack mulled it over. "Well, it's worth a thought, I guess," he admitted. "However, Alfred will be here in a few hours. I'm sure we'll get our answers then."

He rose from the table, signifying that the conversation was over. Sam and Daniel followed suit.

* * *

><p>"You guys have no idea how awesome it is to finally set foot on this base. I've been asking my boss for <em>forever<em> to let me come, and he always said no. If I had known that all it would take was for Tony to get me beamed up to another spaceship, I would have helped him fix the thing myself." Alfred waved his hands excitedly in front of him.

Carter chuckled at his antics. "How have you been since the last time we saw you, Alfred?" she asked genially as she shook his hand. A couple of guards had shown Alfred to where SG-1 was waiting in the debriefing room.

"I've been great, thanks!" he replied as he shook Daniel's hand, who had walked up to him next, and then Teal'c's.

"I heard that you were able to make your meeting after all," Jack prompted as he greeted Alfred next with a handshake. The colonel grinned as Alfred groaned expectedly.

"Yeah, I made the meeting—_almost a whole day_ _late_—but Artie still doesn't believe that I got kidnapped by an alien," he complained. Puffing his cheeks out and stuffing his gloved hands in the pockets of his bomber jacket, he grumbled, "Dude claims that he can see fairies and unicorns, yet—even though he's _met_ Tony—he refused to believe that I got taken to outer space. He claimed that it wasn't _possible_. He didn't let me live it down for the rest of the meeting!" Silently, he added, _And neither did anyone else, of course. _Looking back to SG-1, he queried excitedly, "So what have y'all been up to lately? Am I going to get to see the Stargate?"

General Hammond walked into the room then, and, upon seeing the new addition, walked over and held out his hand. "General Hammond. You must be the Alfred I've heard so much about," he greeted.

Alfred shook his hand enthusiastically. "It's nice to finally meet you in person, General Hammond! I've heard great things about you. You hold this fort down really well," he complimented with a grin.

General Hammond chuckled, both from surprise and pleasure. "Thank you." Gesturing to the table and chairs, he offered, "Shall we take our seats?" The group sat down without further prompting.

"So…" Daniel trailed off. He had a million questions, but he wasn't sure where they were starting.

Alfred looked at SG-1. "I'm assuming that I'll be answering questions before I get to see the Stargate, huh?" he chuckled.

"Um, if it's all right," Daniel replied.

Alfred just grinned. "This is a first for me, but I think that it'll be kinda fun. Ask away, dude."

Jack held up his hand, silencing Daniel before he could open his mouth. "_That_, my friend," he said, "was a very, _very_ dangerous move. All I can say is that you are _very_ brave."

"Er, thank you," Alfred laughed nervously. "Did I just get myself in trouble?" he asked quietly to Sam, who was in the chair next to him.

Sam laughed. "Not really. Daniel just has a list of questions prepared."

"He's like a kid at Christmas," Jack threw in for good measure.

Daniel leaned back with an almost imperceptible snort and turned to Jack. "I'm not that bad."

Jack simply looked at him with a pointed expression that clearly read, '_I beg to differ.'_

Daniel huffed.

Alfred chuckled. "Hey, don't worry about it. I'll be having a lot of questions about the Stargate. We'll call it even then." He grinned.

Daniel perked up a little. "All right." Leaning forward, he asked, his voice picking up speed a little, "What are you?"

Alfred raised an eyebrow. "What am I?" he repeated, before joking, "What kind of a question is that?" The glint in his eyes, however, spoke to Jack and Teal'c that he knew exactly what the question was asking.

Daniel, however, missed it in his excitement. "Thor claims that you have the genetic structure of a human, but that you aren't. According to his ship's readings, you're physically nineteen years old but have lived for over two hundred years. You're like a human, but… you're not," he trailed off, not entirely sure how to conclude the sentence.

America laughed. "That's one smart ship." He sobered quickly, though, studying the group around him for a moment. Finally, he murmured, "I'm not sure that you would believe me even if I told you, although your security clearances now allow me to tell you. As a general rule of thumb, we don't reveal ourselves to people. Usually, just our bosses know what we really are. Everyone else knows us as either our bosses' advisors or the weird people who hang around their offices." He threw the last part in with a chuckle.

"And what would you be?" Jack asked. As Alfred turned to face him, and their eyes briefly met, the strange mix of nervousness and excitement rose from Jack's stomach. In the colonel's memory, he stood, saying his oath as he promised to defend his nation from all threats, foreign and domestic. That he would fight and die for his country, if necessary. To defend his homeland. To defend America.

Alfred smiled softly at him, as though sensing what he was feeling. Finally, he murmured:

"I am your nation. I am the United States of America."

Silence met his words.

"Wait," Sam broke in. "What do you mean that—you're our country?"

"I meant just what I said. I'm the personification of your country, the United States of America." With the previous mood broken, America laughed happily as he punched the air, "I'm the hero!"

Daniel rubbed his temples for a second before repeating incredulously, "A country. _You're a personification of a country?_ How is that possible?"

America shrugged his shoulders cheerfully. "We have no idea. We simply exist as long as our nation exists." He paused for a moment, before adding softly, "And, similarly, when our country or peoples cease to exist, we disappear as well."

"So, what you're saying is that you're actually the United States of America?" Hammond repeated. "And that you will exist for as long as America stands?"

Alfred nodded. "Yep! That about covers it." He grinned again.

Something clicked in Daniel's brain. "Can… national entities, for a lack of a better term… exist simply for groups of people, even if they're not officially a country?"

"Yeah, they can. Most of the older generation of us was like that."

"Before you arrived, I researched old legends, a few of which described people like you, both here in the Americas and in Europe. So," Daniel asked slowly, "what I am wondering is: was there a personification for Native America?"

A shadow fell across America's face, and for a moment, pain flashed in his eyes. "Yes, there was," he said finally, softly. "She was my mother, but..." He paused, and then whispered, "…She's dead now. She grew sick after Mattie and I were born, and she died as we grew up." He paused for a second, a faraway look in his eye. "I don't remember her very well, but I can still hear her voice in the wind, sometimes, calling my name."

"I'm sorry," Sam murmured.

Alfred smiled sadly. "Thank you, but there's nothing that can be done for her now. She's gone. Some of her people are still around, though, and they carry on her memory." He chuckled softly, and then said, "She was quite beautiful when she was alive. Artie still talks about her, sometimes. Francis, too."

"So, the Artie you kept mentioning is like… what you are?" Jack asked.

"Yeah, he's Britain." America grinned. "Actually, if the dude were here, he'd be calling me a wanker or a git for not saying his full name." He scrunched his face to look reprimanding and pulled his best imitation of an English accent, _"I'm the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, you git! When will you learn to address me properly? At least observe _some_ respect for your older brother and call me Great Britain!"_ He burst out laughing. "Ah, Artie's fun, but he's even funnier when he drinks! He can't hold his alcohol worth squat. Mathias and Gilbert—ack, sorry, Denmark and Prussia, for you all—can though. They're fun drinking buddies."

Jack could only stare and listen in amazement. It was mesmerizing. He was staring his country in the face—literally—and he seemed so _human_. He even talked about going out to drink with other nations as if they were friends! (And older brother, apparently. Jack wondered if the personification for Great Britain looked as young as Alfred or if he looked older, given the age differences of their nations.) Jack's head began to swim. Could they only be friends with the nations that their country was friendly with, or did those rules not apply to them?

It was hard enough to believe that Alfred was the personification of his country.

"Who's Mattie?" Daniel asked excitedly, breaking Jack's train of thought. "You mentioned his name earlier. Which country is he?"

"Oh, he's my twin brother, Matthew. He's Canada!" America announced proudly. Then he looked around for a second, before chuckling, "Dude has a serious knack for invisibility, though. But he makes the most awesome pancakes the world—literally!—has ever seen." He paused, and then added, "Just don't get between him and his hockey game. He takes hockey seriously the way I—or, should I say, Americans—take football seriously. He's really quiet, so people tend to forget about him because he's not much of a talker, but he's stuck with me. He's a good guy." America grinned.

"How long have you been around?" Sam asked. "The United States of America officially began taking shape with the Declaration of Independence in 1776, but you spoke as though you existed before that."

"That's because I did," America said, leaning forward onto the table. "I came into being as settlements began forming along the East Coast, the same way that the way that Mexico and her siblings **[1]** were born when Spain arrived and the Spanish conquered the native peoples of the Southern half of North America, Central America, and most of South America." He paused for a moment, before continuing, "I was little then, though. England told me once that, after he and the other European countries found me in a field, they made bids to be my older brother. I don't remember that very well, either, but apparently, I chose him." America grinned. "According to France, I chose England because he became sad after he made me cry with his bad cooking, and I went over to comfort him. I don't know if that's true or not, though."

"That would correspond to the English gaining control of the East Coast of America, then?" Daniel proffered.

America nodded. "Yeah, that would. England came by to visit me sometimes, but I grew up on my own for the most part. I enjoyed his visits, but I got used to living alone." He chuckled mirthlessly. "Naturally, he wasn't happy when I told him that I wanted to move out of the house."

"The American Revolution," Sam voiced.

"Yep," America agreed. "I didn't want to fight Artie, but it was time to stand on my own, you know? I had already been doing it for a long time, and I wasn't a child anymore. I wanted my voice to be heard, not have decisions made for me without having my opinion at least honestly listened to. That's when the Founding Fathers issued the Declaration of Independence, and I officially gained my birthday."

The room was quiet for a moment as everyone soaked the information in.

America laughed lightly. "Wow, I don't think anyone's ever asked me so much about myself. It's kinda fun, though. Like I'm teaching a history class."

Jack laughed. Then he asked, "Are you allowed to act as an individual? Or do you simply follow what the nation is doing?"

America shrugged. "Every nation has their own personality, but our personality is formed from a collective feel of the people in their nation. There are too many people to say that we really reflect one group, though. It's more like an average. We're the stereotypes." He paused for a moment, thinking, and then added, "As far as action, I can leave the country by myself, and hang out with other countries, like when I mentioned going drinking with Denmark and Prussia. We _could_ do that even if we were at war, but it's not done. We follow our people."

"Ok, this time I have to ask," Daniel began. "That was the second time you mentioned Prussia. I thought that his nation was disbanded following World War I. Is his personification still around?"

America nodded. "Yeah. He drives Ludwig—Germany, sorry—up the wall occasionally, because Gilbert—Prussia—has taken up residence in Ludwig's basement. His country may be gone, but Gilbert's still very much around." America laughed. "He makes sure everyone knows it, too."

"Why hasn't he disappeared the way that other national entities have?"

Alfred paused, another shadow briefly passing over his face. "We don't ask him," he murmured finally. "Not that we really want to. We think it's because his people are essentially Ludwig's people, and since they're brothers, he's alive since Ludwig's alive. We're not sure, though."

Daniel nodded slowly. "I guess that makes sense."

"Although it hurt him badly, the existence of East Germany actually helped Gilbert out, since he was given a nation to represent in place of Prussia," Alfred added. "It has since dissolved, but Gilbert's still around. We just accept it." He repeated quietly, "It's not a question that we would ask him. That would be like asking someone, 'Why haven't you died already?' People claim that I'm rude, but even_ I _wouldn't ask someone _that_ question and mean it. And definitely not to Gilbert. We may have stood on opposite sides during World War II, but that has long since ended, and I still owe him for the American Revolution."

"Von Steuben," Sam inputted.

"Yep. That guy was brilliant, and he was a serious help. He took a bunch of farmers and turned them into soldiers. And while I thought that Prussia was a total slave driver in Valley Forge, he really knew what he was talking about." **[2]** America leaned back. "Haha, that brings back memories…"

There was a moment of silence. Jack simply couldn't believe that he was listening to his own country talk about the American Revolution. And that Alfred had just referred to Baron Von Steuben as "that guy" (although his tone was still respectful).

Alfred had such a faraway look on his face, and for a moment, a shadow passed…

Suddenly, Alfred leaned forward, an excited look on his face as he turned to Sam. "Was that the last question? Can I see the Stargate now?"

Sam chuckled. "I'd be okay with that, but you should be asking Daniel that question."

Alfred turned to Daniel, an expectant look on his face.

Daniel shifted in his seat.

Jack sighed. "C'mon, Daniel. Hasn't the kid answered enough questions?"

"Um…" The archaeologist clearly wanted to ask more questions.

Jack, however, had seen the brief shadow on his nation's face, and he felt that more questions might be a bad idea. He didn't know what effect awakening memories of the past had on nations, but he recognized subtle requests for subject changes, even if Daniel didn't always. He stood.

"C'mon, kid. Let's go show you the Stargate."

Alfred gave a cheer, pumping his fist in the air. As they all filed out the door, he silently thanked the colonel for choosing—unlike him, oftentimes—to read the atmosphere.

The American Revolution brought many memories, but some of them were painful.

* * *

><p><span>AN:

**[1]** Does anyone know if there's an official character for Mexico (and for the Central and South American countries)? If there is, do they know if Mexico is officially a boy or a girl?

**[2]** This is a shameless plug for DA4TheFunOfIt's story _Prussian Training_. It's not complete (there are only four chapters), but it's a great story about Prussia and Baron Von Steuben training America and his soldiers in Valley Forge during the American Revolution. If you're interested, give it read!

I also left a shameless plug for one of my favorite songs in this chapter. Kudos if you guess it!

_The surprise:_ Ok, guys, I've already begun Chapter 3, but when I was a few pages in, I realized that I set up the chapter so that it could be taken in many different ways. One path is a quick story shut-down, which was my original plan. (This was not intended to be a very long fanfiction—it was originally intended to be a one-shot, as has been previously expressed.) Other paths lead to a longer story, although I can't promise how long 'longer' is. Depending on the path chosen, total chapters would probably range from 5-10. SO, here's where you come in! What would you prefer: a quick shut-down, or a longer run? My inspiration will be a large factor in this, admittedly, but the juices are sloshing, so please share your thoughts on this chapter in a review and help decide this story's future!


	3. Part the Third

A/N: So, I just realized that this story was rated K+ instead of T. (I had rated this story K+ because K+ was the appropriate rating for the first chapter.) **However, now that I'm moving into multi-chapter territory, I thought it only fair to tell/warn you that I'm raising the rating to T.** It probably won't bother the majority of you, but it's a safety net for me. It also allows me to be freer with things like battle scenes and language (although they shouldn't be extreme; and, if it ever is, I would warn you), now that my plans have changed completely. Consequently, in lieu of the warning, I hope that you will forgive the rating change, as this turn of events was completely unplanned. (This was set to be a one-shot, remember? Before it became a three-shot plus epilogue? Before it became a multi-chapter? Before— *shot*) If you have any questions, please don't be afraid to ask in a review or PM!

ALSO: I can't believe that this story has received over 500 hits, 5 reviews, 15 favorites and 14 alerts after only two chapters. You all rock!

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia Axis Powers or Stargate SG-1. They belong to their respective owners. I am making no money off of this fanfiction. It is for entertainment purposes only.

* * *

><p><span>Into the Wild Blue Yonder—Part the Third<span>

Colonel O'Neill stepped lightly through the base, Alfred chattering energetically behind him to Major Carter. One would have thought that the kid had eaten a liter of sugar. He never seemed to run out of stamina.

"I know that I said this earlier, but you have _no idea_ how awesome it is to finally see the Stargate!" Alfred said excitedly. "I've been hearing stories of this thing from my bosses for a long time."

"What kind of stories have you heard?" Sam asked curiously.

"You know, the fantastic adventure stories, like you read in comics." Alfred laughed. "No, actually, I have been allowed to read the mission reports, and let me tell you, they are some of the most awesome things that I have ever read. If I hadn't have known they were true, even _I_ might have thought that they were fiction." As they turned down another passageway, Alfred continued, "I've read most of the reports. I like keeping tabs on what's happening with my people and possible dangers to them. You're my citizens, even if you're here secretly, away from the general populace."

"Well, it's nice to know that our nation's looking out for us," Carter responded genially.

Alfred smiled genuinely. "Always."

Warmth spread through Carter, and she knew that, despite his perpetual jovial attitude, her nation spoke seriously.

"How much information do you have access to, generally speaking?" Daniel asked curiously.

Alfred shrugged. "Being what I am in addition to being the President's personal advisor, I have access to mostly everything. If there is something that I am unaware of, it would be something that Boss alone knows and the people are unaware."

"Then you probably have known about the Stargate program since it was founded?" Daniel asked.

Alfred nodded. "I've known about it since the President learned about it, which was about the same time. Before that, I had felt that something big was happening, and I had a dream one night. I saw a giant metal ring with symbols carved into it and a pool of light that I couldn't pass through. When I attempted to pass through it, I disappeared and didn't know where I'd gone. It disturbed the heck out of me until the report came in, and I saw pictures of the Stargate. I had never thought that something like this would be found in Gupta's backyard, though."

"Gupta?" Carter asked.

"Ack, I'm sorry," Alfred apologized, scratching the back of his neck in embarrassment. "I keep forgetting that I can't use our personal names with you. Gupta's Egypt. His full name is Gupta Muhammad Hassan."

Daniel's eyes widened, but before he could speak, Jack interrupted him.

"Hey, kids!" Jack called, pushing the button to the automatic door. The door slid open. "We're here."

Alfred cheered, pumping his fist in the air. He zoomed past Jack as he yelled exuberantly, "This is so _awesome_, dude!"

Jack laughed out loud this time, following at a more subdued pace with Carter, Daniel, and Teal'c. By the time they entered through the doorway, Alfred was already standing half-way up the ramp, staring at the large ring that was the Stargate.

"It's amazing…" Alfred murmured, his blue eyes wide behind his glasses.

"Isn't it?" Jack whispered beside him, before he joked, "Is it better than the descriptions in the mission reports?"

"It's _way_ better," Alfred said, nodding in awe. He reached out his hand slowly to brush the cold metal with his gloved fingertips. After a few seconds, he whispered, "This has seen a lot of use. I can feel its age."

"Well, it is very old," Daniel piped in behind them. "It was left behind by the Goa'uld when they abandoned Earth."

"So, of course, they've taken notice of us again, now that we dug it back up," Jack finished.

Alfred chuckled. "Of course. That's usually how these things work, right?" He stepped back from the Stargate, looking it over wistfully again.

"Would you like us to start it up for you?" Jack offered jokingly.

Alfred whipped around to face Jack. "Would you really?" he exclaimed.

"Well, actually, we can't start it up just for you," Jack amended, "but SG-21 is scheduled to return in roughly—"

The Stargate activated, and the base alarms began blaring. _"Unscheduled off-world activation. I repeat, unscheduled off-world activation."_

"—or, they could be arriving home early," Jack finished loudly, as the first chevron locked into place. "Let's get you off the runway. We wouldn't want you to be run over." _Or disintegrated_, he thought belatedly. As he ushered Alfred off the platform, Jack added for good measure, "I have a feeling the President would not be very happy with us if we returned you in less than one piece." _Or have no pieces to return to him._

Alfred laughed as he hopped off of the platform, following behind the exiting Sam, Daniel, and Teal'c. "Yeah, Prez wouldn't be very happy with that." Somehow managing to look backward to Jack as he walked forward, he asked just as loudly, "Am I allowed to stay down here and watch?"

The third chevron locked into place. The lights flashed amidst the alarms as the guards ran into the room, clicking the safeties off of their weapons.

"I would say yes—"

"_Colonel O'Neill, what the hell are you and Alfred still doing down there?!"_ General Hammond's voice blared over the speaker system.

"—but apparently, the general has other ideas," Jack finished loudly again. Why could he never finish a sentence anymore?

Alfred looked like he was about to protest—the fifth chevron was locking!—but he complied with a pout when O'Neill began pushing him out of the door after Daniel.

They arrived in the viewing room right as the seventh chevron locked into place. Alfred gasped quietly as the wormhole formed. "That's so cool…" he breathed.

Sam smiled beside him. "It's beautiful, isn't it?" she asked, indicating the watery portal.

Alfred nodded, his eyes widened in awe. "It looks just like it did in my dream…" he murmured.

* * *

><p>The Stargate stood silently, the light from the wormhole lighting up the room.<p>

Alfred turned to Major Carter, confused. He was bouncing on his heels in impatience, but if he was honest, that was unease at that the bottom of the restless energy. "How long does it take to travel through the Stargate, Major Carter? It's already been almost four minutes."

Major Carter appeared uneasy herself as she shook her head. "It never takes this long," she replied definitively. She turned to Walter. "Try to get a line through to SG-21."

"On it, Major."

As he was connecting the radio line, the light rippled within the wormhole. Everyone in the Stargate room and in the control room halted.

An armored Jaffa stepped out of the portal, the gold tattoo on his forehead shining in the blue light of the Stargate for a moment. He held a staff weapon.

The guards held the weapons hesitantly, waiting for an order. Was this a friend or—

Two more armored Jaffa followed after him, also holding staff weapons. The first looked around the room.

Then he smiled.

In the overhead room, Alfred paled. That smile— "Oh, cr—"

The Jaffa lowered his staff weapon. _"Jaffa, cree!"_

And fired.

A guard fell back with a scream and didn't rise.

Alfred hissed, but his exhalation was drowned in the blare of gunfire, zat blasts, and staff weapon blasts that filled the room below half a second later. He registered being pulled down below the computer control panels, presumably by Major Carter.

"Sound the base alarm and call reinforcements to the Gate room!" General Hammond ordered above the din. Another group of armored Jaffa entered through the Stargate. "We need these unwelcome guests out of here!"

"On it, sir!" Walter began typing furiously on his keyboard as O'Neill ran over and slammed a button on the far wall.

Alarms blared throughout the compound immediately. Alfred could feel the quickened pulse of his citizens scrambling throughout the compound as they hurried toward the Gate Room. He crawled out from beneath the computer desk as SG-1 rose and moved quickly to the other side of the room.

"What the hell is going on here?! Where are SG-21?!" General Hammond shouted a few feet away as SG-1 began suiting up with spare equipment from the Control Room.

"I don't know, sir!" Colonel O'Neill shouted back as he slipped a vest on. "Can we reach them on the radio?"

A voice crackled over the speaker, as if summoned by Colonel O'Neill. _"Stargate command, this is SG-21! We're under heavy fire!"_

General Hammond was at the communications desk in a second. "So are we. What happened, SG-21?"

"_We were ambushed by the Goa'uld, sir! We dialed home, but our radios jammed, and then they overran us! We couldn't call home, and then we lost control of the Stargate!"_

Colonel O'Neill cursed out loud. What a time—!

"We're dealing with the Goa'uld that made it through the Gate, SG-21, and we're sending reinforcements! Hold on as best as you can until then!" General Hammond ordered.

"_Yes, sir!"_ The communication line died.

Hammond turned to his flagship team. "SG-1, I want O'Neill, Carter, and Teal'c to defend the Gate Room. The guards will need all the help that they can get until reinforcements arrive, and the first SG team that arrives through the door will then go with you through the Gate to help SG-21. Dr. Jackson, I want you to take Alfred—" He halted, his eyes widening. As if reading his thoughts, SG-1 looked around, realizing it at the same moment that the general shouted,

"_Where the hell is Alfred?!"_

Something cold sank into the pit of O'Neill's stomach at the realization that his nation had disappeared from the Control Room. He searched the room around him frantically again, but sure enough, the tall, straw-haired, blue-eyed teenager was gone. Where the heck could the kid have run off to in the space of two minutes and how could they not have noticed—

"_Hey, alien invaders!"_ A booming laugh rang out above the din in the Control Room below. _"The hero has arrived!"_

General Hammond and SG-1 raced to the Control Room window just in time to see Alfred side-step a staff weapon blast, punch a Jaffa in the stomach, and send him flying back fifteen feet with a resounding _crack_. The Jaffa didn't rise.

Jack's eyes widened. That just wasn't humanly possible; that was the stuff of Marvel comics! Were all personified nations that strong?

"That'll teach you to mess with Earth!" Another Jaffa took a shot at him, but Alfred ducked at the last second. "You want a piece of the hero, too, huh?! Come and get it, then!" He laughed fearlessly again as he charged, moving effortlessly in time with the pulse of the battle.

Although the laughter sounded obnoxious as it reverberated around the Gate Room, something about the confidence it bore—the fact that he could _laugh_ in the face of death—chased away any of the lingering senses of trepidation in the soldiers around Alfred. It even reached out to those in the Control Room.

_Amazing…_ Colonel O'Neill thought, feeling the hope that spread through him and vaguely remembering something that Daniel had said that morning—about personified nations being known as the 'bringers of hope' to their people. _Just like that…_

"Found him, General," Jack supplied unnecessarily.

General Hammond's face twitched and he looked like he was about to burst a blood vessel. Instead, he yanked the microphone toward him and shouted over the noise, _"Alfred, get the hell out of the Gate Room _right now_!"_

"HAHAHAHA! Was that your best shot, dude? It missed me by a mile!"

Alfred's booming laughter was the general's only response as the nation ducked another blast before punching another Jaffa. The kid wasn't even using a weapon, O'Neill noted. He should at least be using something besides his fists, regardless of the fact that he was wearing gloves!

General Hammond made a strangling sound in his throat before turning to SG-1. "SG-1, I want you to do whatever it takes to get that kid out of the Gate Room _now_! I don't care _what_ he is—he shouldn't be down there!"

Something in O'Neill's gut recoiled at the idea of pulling his nation from the battle, but the general spoke sense. The President would flip if anything happened to Alfred.

"Got it, General."

SG-1 hurried from the Control Room.

* * *

><p><em>Two minutes earlier<em>

The movement of his citizens within the Air Force base overwhelmed Alfred. They moved with a single purpose: _defend the base_.

"Defend the base," Alfred mouthed as he crawled out from beneath the computer panel. In the back of his mind, he knew that following his citizens' call would probably earn him a reprimand, but as their nation, he could not ignore them.

Three seconds later, the call of his citizens filled Alfred's entire being. While SG-1 scrambled to suit up in the Control Room, Alfred ran for the door. General Hammond ordered for the alarms to blare just as Alfred disappeared beyond the reach of his voice.

Propelled toward the fight, he slipped into a passing group. They looked at him strangely for a moment, but there was no time to question his presence. Five seconds later, they had passed through the door to the Stargate Room.

Alfred's mind cleared the second he stepped through the door. He had reached the citizens that called him. The call no longer overwhelmed him, but merely surrounded him, guiding his purpose in the Gate Room. It grew stronger when another Jaffa group passed through the Gate, but it would not overwhelm him again.

He was where he needed to be.

Alfred ran over to the first man that had taken a staff blast. As his nation, he had already felt his life slip away, but something in Alfred's nature always hoped that there was a sliver of life left to spare them. Occasionally, there was.

This time, there wasn't.

The brown-haired man had collapsed against the wall. Alfred knew his name the moment he saw him: Sergeant Robert Harris. In another second, the record of his citizen filled his thoughts, unbidden, as always: Sgt. Harris was 24 years old. He was one of three children, the second son of a Californian scientist and a Floridian poison specialist. He graduated from the Air Force Academy in the middle of his class with a double major in Physics and Chemistry. He accepted the post in Cheyenne Mountain a year ago, after proposing to his high school sweetheart, a dark-haired girl named Roxanne. They had a son due to be born in two months. Sgt. Harris had not lived to see his child be born.

As always, his citizen's history hit Alfred like a punch in the gut. They only occurred when he faced a fallen citizen, and they were not something that he could control very well, not that he had ever tried that hard. Knowing the names of his fallen citizens was not enough for Alfred; he wanted to know his citizens as individuals.

Even when he did not have the time, on the battlefield. Yet, on the battlefield was also where he especially wanted to know of their lives, because they had given their lives in service to protect their nation, to protect him. Knowing who they were and how they had lived was the least return that he could offer them, to honor their memories. He carried the memories of all of his citizens inside of him, after all, as their nation.

America knelt beside Sgt. Harris, and he murmured, "Thank you for your service, Sgt. Harris. I will carry on what you could not." Then Alfred picked up the MP5 that Sgt. Harris had dropped when he fell and ran into the chaos.

He would have blood on his hands today. It was not something that Alfred was proud of, but bloodied hands was the fate of every nation that fought alongside their citizens.

A minute later, Alfred had run out of bullets, but he had decreased the enemy count by three. The Jaffa that had shot Sgt. Harris had already fallen, but the increasing number of Jaffa in the Gate Room caused fear to spread among his soldiers. They fought with a soldier's mental fortitude, but a battlefield was never rid of fear.

Five more of his citizens had fallen, but their weapons had already been picked up by other soldiers. Alfred had no way to reload his gun or find another in the time frame of a few seconds, so he decided to chuck the gun and fight with his fists. He had done so before, even though it was not his preferred method of warfare.

First, though, he needed to up the morale in the Gate Room. Fear was often a gateway to courage, but something was needed to rally it. He also needed to draw the attention away from some of his soldiers that were trying to pull the injured out of the room as well as reload under the relentless fire in the small space of the Stargate Room.

"Hey, alien invaders!" Alfred chucked the empty gun at the nearest Jaffa, and when the Jaffa whipped around to face the direction of his shout, the gun smacked the metal shield with a loud _clang_, deactivating the shield. If _that_ hadn't gotten his attention, America didn't know what would. Calling his bluff, Alfred pointed a gloved hand at the hard-faced Jaffa and, laughing, shouted, "The hero has arrived!"

The surrounding trepidation among his soldiers broke into that of tense confusion, even if the Jaffa in front of Alfred remained stoic. These guys couldn't take a joke. Instead, the Jaffa leveled his staff weapon at Alfred, and Alfred had to duck to avoid the blast. "Crap," he hissed. The blast singed his hair, but thankfully, it missed Nantucket.

The Jaffa fired another blast, but Alfred side-stepped it and charged. The Jaffa was not expecting a front-on assault, and before he could fire another shot, Alfred punched him full-force in the stomach and sent him flying. His knuckles stung, and Alfred hissed, but his hand hurt much less than if he had tried to punch the metal of the shield directly.

The Jaffa didn't rise, so Alfred released the breath he had been holding. Maybe he could fight with only his fists against aliens, too. He took a deep breath and, ignoring the dull throb in his hand, Alfred shouted fearlessly, "That'll teach you to mess with Earth!"

To Alfred's hope, seeing the Jaffa punched back seemingly effortlessly by a stranger gave the soldiers around him the hope that they needed to continue fighting back.

It didn't matter how many enemy soldiers came through the Stargate. The enemy was not invincible. All they had to do was continue fighting.

Alfred smiled quietly, grateful that morale was lifting as his soldiers fought back with a renewed vigor. The moment was short-lived, however, as another Jaffa, witnessing the spectacle of his comrade flying half-way across the room, turned his attention upon the heroically-strong newcomer named Alfred. He fired his staff weapon at said Alfred, which the nation barely dodged.

_Dang, that was close,_ Alfred thought. Instead of letting it show on his face, Alfred shouted, "You want a piece of the hero, too, huh?! Come and get it, then!"

This Jaffa had just arrived through the Stargate, and his group was still on the platform. Alfred dodged more blasts as he ran in their direction. He'd start picking them off as they came through the Stargate, and the rest of his soldiers could take care of the ones already in the Gate Room.

Alfred vaguely heard General Hammond scream something, but in the chaos of the Gate Room, he had no way to know what the general said. In the back of his mind, Alfred thought he heard his name, but he wasn't sure. Chances were that, if the general was screaming at him, it was to tell him to get out of the battle. Alfred couldn't do that, though; America needed to fight with his soldiers. He couldn't abandon them to fight alone!

Two of the newest group fell from gunfire as Alfred maneuvered his way toward the activated Stargate, but one of them still focused his fire on Alfred. Although he came desperately close to losing his face with that nearest shot (he was sure the shoulder of his jacket was smoking), he laughed loudly, "HAHAHAHA! Was that your best shot, dude? It missed me by a mile!"

Alfred felt more soldiers enter the Stargate Room. With the enemy numbers decreasing and the rest of the base arriving, the morale was shifting upward.

If America could only reach the platform—

He ran up the side, caught sight of the Jaffa that was firing at him, pulled back his fist, landed it—

The Jaffa went flying. Alfred turned to knock the second off of the platform—

Searing pain in his stomach. Gunfire and screaming resounded in his ears. The Jaffa in front of him collapsed. His vision spotted and blurred. The glove that he pulled away was red but since when did he have red gloves they were black or wait were they dark brown but they were red and black that didn't make sense—

His chest burned—

He tasted blood—

Get down get back—

His foot dragged on the grated platform. He tripped. Alfred stumbled backward—

And was enveloped by an icy mesh of light and darkness.

* * *

><p><span>AN: And so it begins… Into the Wild Blue Yonder: Multi-chapter Edition!

Whew, that was a slightly longer chapter than I expected. I have the next couple of chapters jotted down as notes, so to be honest, I'm not entirely sure where this story will end up. If you're willing to stick around, though, we'll find out together where this journey takes us! As I generally try to have a set plan, this is a little new for me, but I think that this write-as-I-go will be fun (and hopefully, I won't write myself into a corner…)

This chapter showcases some of my new head-canons about America.

So, please share your thoughts in a review! I enjoy hearing from you. Thank you for the reviews, favorites, and alerts so far! You all make my day. :) Also, a special thanks goes out to crossover Junkie for answering my question on Mexico. I couldn't answer you in a reply since you left an anonymous review, but I can thank you here, too!


	4. Part the Fourth

A/N: Happy Fourth of July (for those that celebrate it)! :D

After checking the Wiki page for a list of the Stargate SG-1 characters, I discovered that there were three teams with no listed members. Freedom fries! I can make OCs to suit story necessities! :D You have been warned.

_Chapter warnings:_ Brief usage of Mexican Spanish profanity. My OC Captain has a dirty mouth. If anyone feels that this profanity exceeds a T-rating, I'll adjust accordingly (which means that I'll delete it). Also, I have (obviously) crafted OCs, which may or may not have been done well. I'll leave that judgment to you. I'm also probably twisting time frames around in this story, but that's why it's now labeled AU. You have been further warned…

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia Axis Powers or Stargate SG-1. They belong to their respective owners. I am making no money off of this fanfiction. It is for entertainment purposes only. I don't even own the phrase "Freedom fries," for (as far as I know) that was coined by Sunruner (but it sounds hilarious, at least to me).

* * *

><p><span>Into the Wild Blue Yonder—Part the Fourth<span>

_Stargate Command_

_Two minutes earlier…_

SG-1 ran out of the Control Room, hurrying toward the Stargate Room.

"Ok, guys. Here's the plan," O'Neill directed. "The first thing we do is get the kid out of the Gate Room. He'll put up resistance—because it's in his nature—but we need him out before he gets hurt. Second—"

"Hey, Colonel O'Neill! Headed toward the Gate Room? What a coincidence," a voice joked beside them.

SG-1 turned the corner in time to catch sight of SG-3, Lt. Colonel Albert Reynolds at the head. Perfect!

"Nah, we're just out for an afternoon stroll. What about you?" O'Neill returned.

Lt. Colonel Reynolds laughed, and then he became serious again. "SG-3 came as called. What's the trouble in the Gate Room?"

"SG-21 ran into some trouble during their mission on P9X-534 and got ambushed by the Goa'uld. We're not sure which System Lord yet," Colonel O'Neill explained quickly as they ran. "Since we bumped into you first, you're ordered to help us break through the enemy ranks and rescue SG-21."

"Sounds like a plan."

"Also," Jack continued, "there's a kid in the Gate Room, and we need to get him out of the fight. He'll raise a fuss when we try, and you'll probably see him fighting with just his fists and sending the enemy flying, but while there's no time now to explain, just know that there'll be hell to pay if anything happens to him. We're ordered to pull him out of the fight, ok?"

Reynolds gave him a strange look, but then he laughed it off. "All right, O'Neill. Whatever you say. What's he look like?"

"Nineteen years old, tall, blonde, blue-eyed, glasses," Jack summarized. "Wears a WWII bomber jacket and goes by the name of Alfred."

Lt. Colonel Reynolds nodded. "Gotcha." He looked back. "Everyone catch that?"

The rest of SG-3 assented.

"All right, then! Let's go rescue SG-21 and the kid in the Gate Room!"

* * *

><p>SG-1 and SG-3 arrived in the Stargate Room ten seconds later, squeezing past personnel carrying the injured to the infirmary.<p>

"It's a madhouse in here!" O'Neill shouted as he readied his MP5. "Didn't they know they were supposed to RSVP first?"

"I do not believe that they know about RSVP, O'Neill," Teal'c replied. He shot a Jaffa that aimed for O'Neill.

"Yeah, I didn't think so either," O'Neill responded as he returned the favor.

Jack couldn't believe how many Jaffa had made it through the Gate. It was unbelievable! And where was Alfred in all of this mess?

As if on cue, Alfred's laugh, although quieter, carried over the din.

_Ah, there he is! _

O'Neill's gaze landed on Alfred in time to see him jump on the Stargate platform and punch a Jaffa in the stomach. The Jaffa flew twenty feet off the platform to crash into a wall.

SG-3 stilled beside them. "What the heck—?!" Ah, the Marine unit hadn't seen Alfred's stunt alr—

Alfred turned a second after the last Jaffa on the platform turned around—

O'Neill hissed in horror as his nation took a direct staff blast to the stomach. His eyes widened in horror when he saw the same blast singe the far wall—it had passed completely through his nation—

"Alfred!" Major Carter screamed. O'Neill raised his MP5, but Teal'c was faster, zat-blasting the Jaffa that shot Alfred. The Jaffa crumpled.

The kid needed to get out of the Gate Room _now_, and nations had _better_ be able to recover from holes to the stomach or he didn't know what they were going to do if their national personification _died_—

Alfred coughed up blood, the spots falling onto his shirt and the floor. He stared at the blood, his eyes blank, as though he couldn't comprehend what he was seeing—

_Hold on, kid. We're almost there,_ O'Neill thought, shooting down another nearby Jaffa that tried to take a shot at him. Gah, he didn't have time for this! He needed to reach—

_Boom_.

Time froze. O'Neill watched in horror as his nation took a shot blast to the chest. It didn't rip a hole through him, but the cauterized wound was deep.

Blood dripped from the corner of Alfred's mouth, and his eyes glazed over.

"Alfred!" Daniel screamed.

O'Neill couldn't muster a scream. _Get there now get there now get there now—_

Alfred stumbled on the platform, his boot catching on the metal grating.

He fell backward through the Stargate.

"_Alfred!" _

* * *

><p><em>Planet P9X-534<em>

SG-21 had had a good start to the day. Everything seemed to be going well for them. They were even heading home early. In fact, it was going so well that their linguist, Captain Rodriguez, just _had_ to make the comment, "Why's it been so quiet today?"

Of course, Murphy took that as an invitation to crash the party. But did he have to hand them _hell_ in a _handbasket_?!

First, they had trouble dialing home. The Dialing Device wasn't cooperating, and then the IDC device had difficulty turning on to send their identification signals.

Then, once they had finally dialed home, they didn't make it through the Gate before they were hit by a Goa'uld ambush. They didn't even have time to check their symbols to identify their System Lord.

An ambush they could (almost) deal with.

If it wasn't a whole freakin' Goa'uld _army_.

They were overrun.

Their radios jammed.

The Goa'uld made it through the open Stargate before SG-21 could.

Then, with a stroke of fortune, their radios started working again. They radioed home and were promised reinforcements. They just had to hold on until—

But hen Captain Hartwood was shot by a staff weapon blast. Captain Rodriguez was their most proficient medical member, but Hartwood died before he reached him. Captain Rodriguez was injured in the process of bringing his body back, but the blast that grazed his arm was thankfully not life-threatening.

Lt. Colonel Vicenzo de Luca had no idea what he was going to do. He loaded his third to last magazine, sure that the rest of his living team was similarly supplied. They were running out of ammunition and time. They were four highly-trained SGC personnel, but even _they_ couldn't take down a Goa'uld army with just regular ammo.

"Stargate Command, this is SG-21!" Lt. Colonel de Luca screamed into his radio. "Captain Nathaniel Hartwood was shot by a Jaffa and is dead, and Captain Rodriguez is injured. We need reinforcements _now_!"

"_Reinforcements are on their way, SG-21!"_

If those reinforcements didn't arrive_ soon_—

"Colonel de Luca!" Major Charles Witkowski called from beside him. "The Gate!"

And Lt. Colonel de Luca turned just in time to see a kid in a bomber jacket tumble backwards out of the Stargate.

_Where the _heck_ did _he_ come from?_

"_SG-21, this is General Hammond!"_ the general's voice crackled over the radio speaker_. "SG-1 will arrive with SG-3 in a few minutes, but until they arrive, we need you to rescue a kid that just fell through the Stargate!"_

"A _kid_?" The one that just fell through, okay, but at a time like this?!

"_His name is Alfred, and it's very important that he make it back to Stargate Command! Is that understood, SG-21?"_

He didn't know if he could even rescue what was left of his own team! "Yes, sir, General Hammond!" He didn't have time to rescue a wayward kid, too! But Lt. Colonel De Luca screamed into his radio anyway, "SG-21, fall back toward the Gate!"

"We'll lose our position, sir! I don't think the kid's going anywhere, so let's nab him on the way back!"

"I _know_ we'll lose our position, but you heard General Hammond!" Wait, _why_ wouldn't the kid go anywhere—?

De Luca scrambled backward toward the Stargate, the rest of his living team following. The Jaffa directly pursuing them followed forward.

The Jaffa had lessened in numbers entering through the Gate—which was a blessing for the home front—but they seemed to be focusing their attention on the tiny SG team still on the planet, which was strange, to Lt. Colonel de Luca's mind. Why focus on such a small team when they could focus on their _headquarters_?

However, there were still teams of Jaffa going periodically through the open Stargate. There was no chance of SG-21 entering themselves without getting shot, and de Luca wasn't sure if there was even a chance of pulling the prone kid—no, a straw-haired teenager—away from the Stargate. Besides, given that the Jaffa were ignoring the teen lying motionless on the ground, the kid was already dead.

A blast from a low-flying Death Glider created a large dust screen. A perfect opportunity to run toward the Stargate was wasted by SG-21 hacking their lungs out in the undergrowth fifty feet away. When they could see again, there were some small craters in the ground, and the kid had narrowly been missed by the blast. The force of one of the blasts, however, had propelled him away from the immediate vicinity of P9X-534's Stargate. He was now lying on his back about twenty feet away from them, two staff weapon wounds to his stomach and chest clearly visible.

What was a kid like him doing on the base, anyway? Just to die in a surprise attack? There was no way that he could possibly still be alive, after wounds like those. Why risk—

He twitched.

Vicenzo was seeing things. There was no way that the teen could have had the energy to move. What—

No, he _hadn't_ seen things. The kid stirred. His muscles were trembling, but that was a _definite_ attempt to rise. He failed, though, and instead began coughing with difficulty. Lying on his back, the kid had a greater chance of choking on his own blood from the internal wounds that the staff blast didn't cauterize.

Well, it didn't matter how the kid—what had the general said his name was? Alford? No, _Alfred_—was still alive. If he hadn't died—especially now that there was a chance to rescue him—they would take the chance.

"Captain Rodriguez," Lt. Colonel de Luca called out to their linguist. "You cover Charlie and I from here. We're going to try and rescue the kid."

"That's suicide."

Charlie grinned. "Not right now it isn't."

Captain Eduardo Rodriguez chuckled darkly. But then he looked back up firmly as he loaded his second to last magazine into his MP5. "Fine, I'll cover you. But make it fast, all right? I'm almost out of ammo, and I refuse to sing your elegies, too, tonight."

Lt. Colonel de Luca and Major Witkowski nodded. "Your voice is terrible, anyway," Witkowski quipped. They were gone before Rodriguez could swat him.

De Luca and Witkowski took a deep breath and then jumped into the melee. The Death Glider took a shot at them, but the grenade that Captain Rodriguez gifted it relocated it to the line of Jaffa in pursuit of SG-21, where it met an explosive end. Witkowski dropped down beside the kid while de Luca defended against the newest group heading for the Gate.

Where were all of these Jaffa coming from…? It was like a System Lord's army was here!

"De Luca! The kid's still alive!"

The Lt. Colonel released the breath that he didn't know that he'd been holding. So he hadn't been seeing things. "Then let's get him out of here!"

Lt. Colonel de Luca pulled out his last grenade and chucked it at the Jaffa in front of them, blasting them backwards and creating another brief smokescreen. He and Major Witkowski ducked the blind staff weapon blasts as they hobbled back toward Captain Rodriguez, one of the kid's arms slung over each of their shoulders.

"Hey," he greeted, "took y'all long enough—"

Major Witkowski stumbled forward with a hiss, dropping the kid along with Lt. Colonel De Luca. They all tumbled into Captain Rodriguez.

"What was that for?! What—!"

De Luca's eyes widened as he saw the smoking stain of crimson dying the side of Witkowski's camos. _Oh, no, not now!_ "Witkowski! Are you all right?" He crawled over to him.

Witkowski chuckled humorlessly. "No worries, sir. I've never been better—" His words died upon a hissed intake of breath, and he curled inward on the ground while being subconsciously careful not to touch his side.

"_Cabrones!_" Captain Rodriguez cursed as he knelt beside Witkowski. He studied the wound for a second, and then he exhaled steadily. "They got a lucky shot. It probably hurts like hell, but the heat cauterized the wound, and it was only a graze. You'll be fine once we get you back to the base. How you doing?"

"Fantastic for having gotten grazed!" Major Witkowski groaned before he looked with difficulty back toward their new charge. "How's he doing, De Luca?" That kid had taken two direct blasts. By all rights, he should be dead...

Lt. Colonel de Luca turned back to their rescued kid. With Major Witkowski's injury, he had almost forgotten that he was there. The kid had straw-blond hair, a small section of it sticking up strangely in the front, like a cowlick. He wore glasses and a beaten-up and singed WWII bomber jacket. He also appeared to be unconscious, incapable of the movement that he thought that he saw before. Perhaps the blast knocked him unconscious. "I don't know," he murmured. "Can you take a look at him, Rodriguez?"

"Sure, de Luca."

Captain Rodriguez crawled gingerly over to the kid—_Alfred_, de Luca reminded himself. The Lt. Colonel checked the magazine on his MP5 and saw that he had half of it left. He sighed in relief before turning back toward the Stargate, reaching for his radio.

"Stargate Command, this is SG-21. Do you copy?"

For a breathless second, there was a static, and then: _"SG-21, this is General Hammond. We read you."_

Lt. Colonel de Luca released a breath of relief. The radios were still working. "We found the kid, General Hammond, but he's not doing too well."

"_Copy that, SG-21. Do whatever is necessary to get back through the Stargate and bring the kid with you."_

"And those reinforcements?"

"_Coming as soon as they can, SG-21," _was the crackled reply.

_But not fast enough…_ "Roger that. SG-21 over and out."

Lt. Colonel De Luca dropped his radio back alongside his flak jacket. Readying his gun, he peered out through the underbrush.

Many of the Jaffa had cleared away from the Stargate, although the Gate was still on. They might have a chance to charge for the Stargate after Rodriguez had assessed the kid, but something inside Lt. Colonel de Luca screamed caution. The Stargate lay in a clearing that was clearly visible from the trees. As soon as they exited, they had to be sure that they would reach the Stargate; otherwise, they were sitting ducks.

He glanced back to Captain Rodriguez. It was true that he'd blown up a Death Glider with a grenade, but why weren't the Jaffa actively pursuing them? Why clear out and leave the Gate on…?

What was going on?

* * *

><p>Captain Rodriguez inspected the teen's wounds with deft, dark fingers. What had a teen like this kid been doing in Stargate Command in the first place…?<p>

Well, that was not a question that he could answer, so he dropped it. The most pressing concern was making sure that the kid was alive. After all, unlike Hartwood—

No, he couldn't think about Nathan. As much as it hurt, he didn't have the time to grieve for his best friend.

There was never time for grieving on the battlefield.

He shook his head to clear his focus, and then he redirected his gaze on the teen in front of him.

Wait a minute. Captain Rodriguez's eyes widened. He leaned closer toward the kid. "That's not possible…" he breathed.

Lt. Colonel de Luca turned back sharply as Major Witkowski looked up. "What's not possible?" he asked.

"This kid… His wounds…"

"What about his wounds?" Charlie asked hoarsely.

"Staff weapon blasts naturally cauterize the wounds, but this kid's wounds look like they're already healing," Rodriguez murmured in amazement. He pointed to the stomach wound. "Do you see the size of this one? This one obviously was hit at close range and, if so, it should have passed right through him. Yet there's new tissue growth around the edges of the cauterization." He shook his head. "I've never seen a body recover from staff weapon wounds like this. This kid should be dead—that blast would have destroyed several major organs and a section of his spinal column—but instead, the wounds are stabilizing—_on their own_."

"What are you talking about?" de Luca asked incredulously. He crawled over quickly, catching his balance on Captain Rodriguez's shoulder. His jaw dropped.

Captain Rodriguez was right. This kid was healing—albeit really, _really_ slowly, but he was _healing_—right before their eyes.

Rodriguez pointed toward Charles. "I'm tempted to bandage Charlie first and then see how much more he has healed. Unlike Charlie, this kid obviously appears to have some sort of accelerated healing."

"What did the General say that his name is?" Witkowski asked quietly, staring the prone, unknown figure on the ground.

"Alfred," de Luca supplied just as quietly.

Captain Rodriguez dug into his pack and pulled out bandages before swiftly moving to Witkowski's side, leaving de Luca beside the prone form of the teen. "Who or what is that kid?" Eduardo murmured as he studied Witkowski's wound before unwrapping the bandage.

No one could answer.

* * *

><p><em>Stargate Command<em>

_15 minutes earlier…_

SG-1 and SG-3 fought furiously in the Stargate Room, but while the Jaffa numbers lessened, the SGC teams weren't reaching the Stargate.

"This is insane," breathed Major Carter from behind a crate. She took a second to wipe the sweat on her forehead with her sleeve before returning her attention to reloading her gun. "Where are all of these Jaffa coming from?"

Daniel shook his head quickly as he shoved a replacement magazine into his pistol. "I have no clue. I don't even know the insignia of the System Lord on these Jaffa. Perhaps it's a minor System Lord?"

Major Carter shook her head. "Maybe. But if their leader is a minor System Lord, why would they risk so much of their army?"

Daniel pushed his glasses hurriedly up his sweaty nose. "Well, what would they have to gain?"

"I have no idea." Major Carter shrugged, reshouldering her MP5 and leaning around the crate to scope the enemy positions in the room. "What might they have gained that would have been worth it?"

Daniel had no answer. Instead, he leaned around the crate and fired a round of bullets toward the newest group of Jaffa that had entered through the Stargate.

* * *

><p><em>8 minutes earlier…<em>

"Is it just me, or are there less Jaffa coming through the Gate?" Daniel asked loudly over the din.

"You know, for once, Daniel, I don't think that it's just you," quipped Colonel O'Neill.

Daniel risked the second it took to roll his eyes at Jack. His only regret was that O'Neill turned away at that moment and didn't see it.

* * *

><p><em>3 minutes earlier…<em>

Daniel was now sure of it. There were less Jaffa entering through the Gate. Had they really made that much of a dent in the numbers, or were they simply entering in lesser numbers? He couldn't remember seeing them exit.

Then again, he'd been more focused on returning fire on the Jaffa in the Gate room than to watch and see if any of them left.

"Daniel!"

Daniel turned around. Sam was standing near the Stargate Platform, and she'd almost regrouped with Colonel O'Neill and Teal'c. A path was clearing toward the Stargate, which, by some miracle, was still on.

He hurried over, one of the members of SG-3—Captain Judson, he belatedly remembered—following close behind.

* * *

><p><em>2 minutes earlier…<em>

O'Neill could almost reach out and touch the Stargate.

It would have been a sweeter thought, had he not been concerned about timing the jump. He wasn't sure how he was keeping track of the entering Jaffa while shooting at the same time, but the Jaffa were now entering at a lower rate. It was almost time for another group to enter.

SG-1 and SG-3 needed to take the newest group down quickly and then run through the Gate. It wouldn't do to collide with someone attempting to enter—

_There!_ And only three instead of four!

Rapid shots were fired from someone in the corner, knocking one of the newest additions off of the platform, and Teal'c's zat gun knocked off the second. All that was left was the third—

Who put up a _dang_ good fight. O'Neill would have been impressed if this wasn't an enemy that he needed to get around to get through the Stargate to rescue his nation and SG-21.

_Boom._

The Jaffa tumbled off of the platform, the remnants of a staff blast smoking his armor.

"Now, O'Neill!" Teal'c shouted.

"Don't have to tell me twice!"

O'Neill charged up the side of the Stargate Platform, trusting that his team would follow close behind. He ducked to avoid a shot blast that grazed the Stargate, jumped—

_Shooo-oom._

And leapt through an empty ring, stumbling down the other side of the Stargate platform.

* * *

><p><span>AN: I'm sorry for the wait, but besides the fact that I had to return to studying for my Comprehensives for a little while, this chapter gave me _so_ much trouble: the OCs needed more development, I needed a list of rankings within the Air Force, I changed names, I needed to check whether my planet's number had already been used (which I couldn't find a list of…), I needed to refresh myself on several things and look up more things, etc. Most of these problems (and the rate at which they were fixed) unfortunately stemmed from the fact that I only have internet access on the weekends. My current schedule is to write during the week and fact/canon check the chapter on the weekend. Sometimes my muse is all right with inserting a blank for something, but other times, it refuses to cooperate.

But enough about me!

Fun Fact 1: Chapter Five (which, as a consequence of the aforementioned, is now 90% complete, surprisingly) will include the second half of my notes for Chapter Three and an indeterminate amount of the plot notes for Chapter Four. (Will this be a trend…?)

Fun Fact 2: I dropped a movie quote in here this time. Kudos to the one who finds it!

_For those who understand Mexican Spanish curses:_ Yes, Captain Rodriguez said that. :P Just know that it's stronger/ruder/dirtier than its English translated equivalent, as I understand. (And, obviously, please don't repeat it at home, kids. Or mispronounce other words that are similar-sounding, like 'shrimp' ('_camerone'_), because then everyone gives you really funny looks because they believe that you just dropped a random curse at the dinner table. But when they finally explain _why_ they are looking at you that way, at least you've learned a new curse word, right?)


	5. Part the Fifth

A/N: I can't believe that I've reached 1,189 hits, 9 reviews, 21 favorites, and 21 watchers for this story! Your support means so much to me. You all rock!

I'm really sorry if the time and placement inclusions are confusing. If they're too much, then I might take them out. My general rule of thumb is that I'll include them if I'm rewinding or fast-forwarding through time, but if the scenes are connected sequentially, then I don't add it.

_Narrator Voice:_ At the end of our last episode of _Into the Wild Blue Yonder_, the Stargate shut down before SG-1 and SG-3 could make it through. _Oh noes!_ What will happen now?

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia Axis Powers or Stargate SG-1. They belong to their respective owners. I am making no money off of this fanfiction. It is for entertainment purposes only.

* * *

><p><span>Into the Wild Blue Yonder—Part the Fifth<span>

_Planet P9X-534_

_Shoo-oom._

"No—!" breathed Witkowski. Even injured, his hearing was superb—but SG-21 knew without his confirmation what the sound has been.

The Stargate's connection had finally broken with no more Jaffa teams entering through the Stargate.

However, while Earth was safer, neither could SG-21 radio home to ask again for reinforcements.

"Well, is the coast clear, at least?" Captain Rodriguez asked. "Maybe we could just reopen the Stargate."

De Luca crawled over the edge of the undergrowth. "The coast is clear," he answered, and then rounded on Rodriguez quickly, but Witkowski beat him to the punch.

"You're not allowed to say _squat_ that could jinx us with your 'ojo,' Rodriguez," he quipped. **[1]**

The Captain chuckled. It wasn't lighthearted, but at least it eased the mood. "I wouldn't dream of tempting fate again," he replied. Leaning over to Major Witkowski, he said, "Let me finish binding your side. I'm almost done, and then I can tend to the kid again." He continued wrapping the bandages around the major's side carefully. It needed to withstand the dash to the Stargate. "Besides, by the time that I'm done with you, I have a feeling that the kid will be a little more healed. Once you're both ready, we'll be able to chance the Gate again. And _no_," he replied to a pointed look from Witkowski, "I am _not_ saying anything this time. Besides, _ojo_ isn't speaking and tempting fate—that's Murphy's Law, Charlie. We've discussed this before."

"I don't care what you call it," he murmured. "Today has taught me that, if I ever need a jinx specialist, I'll go to _you_."

"Ha, ha, and ha."

Major Witkowski was bandaged up quickly and efficiently. As predicted, when Captain Rodriguez turned back to bandage up the teenager named Alfred, his wounds had further healed (even giving the fact that Captain Rodriguez could still see the ground through the teenager's stomach wound…). In fact, the the damaged skin around the wound was now a lighter pink, and the wound was smaller by a hair's width.

Although Captain Rodriguez watched the healing wounds with awe, the most amazing thing for him was the fact that _Alfred was alive at all_.

"This just isn't possible. This kid shouldn't be alive," Rodriguez muttered to himself as he began to carefully bandage Alfred. "I have no idea _what_ he is, but as soon as we get back to base, I'm having some words with General Hammond."

_So am I_, thought Lt. Colonel de Luca, _but for a different reason_. Stealing another glance at the kid, that strange feeling stole over him again.

He and his team were almost killed in an ambush by the Goa'uld. Captain Nathaniel Hartwood was, in fact, killed, and they were bringing his body back for a proper burial. He knew that, under Captain Rodriguez's tough front, he must be dying. The captains had been best friends since the Air Force Academy, and Rodriguez had just watched Hartwood die in front of him. In addition, Lt. Colonel de Luca was not certain that they would make it to the Gate safely—carrying both Alfred and the body of Hartwood, in addition to Witkowski and Rodriguez being injured—and be there long enough to open the Gate successfully. What if the Gate malfunctioned again? Or their IDC malfunctioned _again_ and then they couldn't radio back to announce themselves, and they hit the Iris? What if the kid died before making it back, or Major Witkowski didn't make it either? What if they were shot before even reaching the Stargate? What if—

For the first time on a mission, Lt. Colonel de Luca realized just how many things could go wrong to prevent them from returning home.

So why was it, whenever he leveled his gaze upon the injured teenager, he felt a strange sense of calm over the torrential turmoil…? Why, in the face of death, he did feel a strange feeling of peace so akin to hope?

God knew that—in this kind of situation—peace was the one thing that he _should_ have yet should be lacking.

Was it the persistent force of life in the face of death? Or…

Lt. Colonel de Luca sighed to himself and turned back to scan the area in front of the Stargate through the foliage. He didn't have time to think about that now. He needed to make sure that he got his team back safely, even at the expense of himself.

He continued scanning the grassy area of the clearing in front of the Stargate. Everything appeared clear, but that was how it had appeared the last time…

* * *

><p><em>Earth<em>

_Three minutes earlier…_

O'Neill had almost regained his balance—if not restrained his indignation—when Teal'c crashed into him from behind. They tumbled ungracefully down the platform to land at the foot of it in a heap.

"What the _hell_ just happened?!" O'Neill shouted as he sorted out which limbs were his.

Teal'c pulled himself free with a grunt before extending a hand to O'Neill. The Colonel took it. "I believe that the Stargate has shut itself down, O'Neill."

"I gathered that," O'Neill replied. "But why did it shut down _now_?!"

Teal'c shook his head. "Of that, I am uncertain."

"Did the Stargate time out?" Sam asked, running up beside Jack and Teal'c, her MP5 at the ready. Daniel followed close behind, his hands tight around his pistol.

"Probably," O'Neill grunted. Their mission just complicated a little. He recollected his MP5 quickly from the ground.

"How long will it take to redial?" Daniel asked.

A staff blast grazed O'Neill's shoulder, singeing his uniform. O'Neill ducked to the ground with a loud curse, SG-1 following his lead. They met in a huddle. "How long will it take to reclaim the Gate room?" O'Neill returned loudly over the chaos.

"Good point."

"Besides," Major Carter broke in, "even if we could reclaim the Stargate Room, there's no guarantee that we would actually be able to reach the planet."

O'Neill raised an eyebrow. "Why is that?"

"SG-21 had trouble dialing in, remember, Colonel? What if we experience the same problems from this side?"

O'Neill cursed. He had forgotten about that. "Well, we'll just do the best that we can. The bright side is that now we only have to contend with the Gate-crashers who are currently here. Once they're taken care of, we'll storm the planet with SG-3 and rescue the kid and SG-21." Yanking his radio closer to his mouth, he shouted into it, "General Hammond! There's a _slight_ problem with our Stargate!"

The radio crackled for a moment. General Hammond's response barely carried over the din, _"I can see that from here, Colonel. Walter is currently doing what he can to get it back online. He says that he can't engage the chevrons."_

"He can't engage the chevrons?" Carter piped in on her radio.

"_No, he can't, Major. As soon as he can get the Stargate online, you and SG-3 are to head immediately through the Gate to rescue SG-21 and Alfred. Is that understood?"_

"Yes, sir," answered O'Neill.

"_Good. Now see if you can help round up these unwanted guests."_ The connection died.

O'Neill checked the magazine on his MP5. Ah, he still had about two-thirds left. Very nice. "Ready to go, kids?"

The rest of SG-1 nodded, and they jumped back into the fray.

* * *

><p>General Hammond leaned over Walter's shoulder. "So, why aren't the chevrons locking?"<p>

Walter shook his head as he typed furiously on the computer. "I don't know, sir. Look." He gestured to the computer. "The program is intact, but as soon as I try to enter the coordinates of P9X-534—" Walter entered the coordinates and hit 'Enter.'

A warning message blared on the computer: _Chevrons locked. Would you like to cut off the connection and reengage?_

"See?" Walter gestured helplessly. "The computer claims that we're _already_ locked on P9X-534, and I don't know why. I even tried to override and reconstruct portions of the program's code, but I get the same result."

"But what does it _mean_?" General Hammond persisted. "Is this outside interference? Is it our own program not communicating with the Stargate? Which is it?"

Walter shook his head. "I can't say if it's outside interference, but _something's_ affecting the program, like a computer virus." He typed furiously again, and when the same message reappeared, he banged the table in frustration. He ghosted his fingers through his short hair in frustration for a second before inhaling quickly and opening up a code panel and trying the recoding approach again.

"So the program's obsolete?"

"No, general," Walter assured. "The program is intact. It just can't communicate with the Stargate." He paused for a second, and then, finding the right analogy, explained, "It's like calling someone and receiving a busy tone or their answering machine. The call is going through, but you can't make a connection. That's what's happening here." He began typing furiously again, his gaze scanning the computer text rapidly. "We're attempting to dial out, but the Stargate claims that there is already a connection either here or elsewhere, so we're receiving their busy tone—only, we're not the ones who currently have a connection."

"So someone else has the connection with P9X-534's Stargate?" General Hammond clarified.

Walter nodded. "That's the most likely explanation, General Hammond, short of our Stargate malfunctioning and either 'pocket-dialing' on its own or believing that it's calling other Stargates when it really isn't." He inhaled quickly before exhaling a soft, "I don't even know what's going on, to be honest. I'm doing my best to troubleshoot and fix the problem, but I don't even know what I need to _fix_. The Gate is saying that it's already engaged, but there's no wormhole, so the _other_ Stargate must be engaged, but there's no way for the Gate to know that without a wormhole—"

General Hammond took a deep breath as Walter trailed off and rambled incoherently. The General briefly closed his eyes to listen to the chaos in the room below through the blast shield. It was fierce, but with the connection broken, he was sure that their side was finally winning. "How long will it take to make a new connection?" he asked.

Walter took a deep, steadying breath and stopped typing. He stared at the computer, contemplating rebooting the entire system, and then he said, "If this _is_ our Stargate somehow giving us a busy tone without an established wormhole—which technically is _impossible_—how long will it take the other side to close their connection and allow us to make a new one?"

General Hammond didn't have an answer. The question that General Hammond really wanted answered was: If this was a busy signal, did they have enough time to wait?

* * *

><p><em>Just keep firing…<em> O'Neill repeated to himself in a mantra. For the second time, he could almost touch the Stargate. So close…

_Don't worry, kid. We're coming for you, and we'll be there as soon as we can. Just hang on until then, okay?_

* * *

><p>Alfred was in a dark place.<p>

He wasn't entirely sure where he was. He was somewhere. But he was also nowhere in particular.

It was strange.

He hadn't felt like this since…

_Since the last time that Alfred had died._

The thought jolted through Alfred, as some form of clarity through the darkness returned. Had he died…?

But if he'd died, where was he? How come he hadn't woken up yet?

What if he never woke up again…?

_No._

Alfred would wake up. He'd never die like this, uncertain of his own fate. He was the United States of America!

He'd wake up.

He just didn't know when.

But wait…

_Wasn't_ that death?

* * *

><p><em>Earth<em>

It took another hour before the last enemy Jaffa fell. When that happened, there was much exhausted rejoicing in the Stargate Room.

The battle was over.

O'Neill looked around the room that was no longer a battleground. The blast shield had come down at some point, presumably right after the battle began, to protect the glass that allowed the Control Room to overlook the Stargate Room and personnel behind it. It had yet to rise. Personnel rushed in and out of the Gate Room, still carrying the injured to the Infirmary. There were scorch and blast marks and dents all over the floor, the walls…

The Stargate was lucky to have come out unscathed, with the exception of some light scorch marks. Hopefully, it was still working. Hopefully, those scorch marks weren't evidence of the Stargate having shut down due to a staff blast or something…

"_Colonel O'Neill, status report."_

O'Neill took a quick head count, and he replied into his radio, "All members of SG-1 are unharmed and accounted for in the Gate Room, General Hammond. One member of SG-3 took a hit to the side and is presumably in the Infirmary. Another SG-3 member is missing, so he's presumably with the injured member…?" He trailed off slightly as he glanced over to Lt. Colonel Albert Reynolds, and Reynolds nodded. "Actually, that would be a yes, General. The remaining two members of SG-3 are present and accounted for in an uninjured state in the Stargate Room. We're awaiting orders."

"_Good, Colonel. Please have SG-1 and the remaining members of SG-3 report to the Control Room."_

"Aye aye, General." Colonel O'Neill dropped the radio alongside his vest and turned back to Lt. Colonel Reynolds. "I think we're about to see some more action."

Lt. Colonel Reynolds chuckled humorlessly. "I think that you're right."

* * *

><p><em>3 minutes later…<em>

_SGC Control Room_

"How's Captain Judson doing?" Major Carter asked Lt. Colonel Reynolds.

"He's stable, thankfully," Lt. Colonel Reynolds replied. "Took a staff blast to the side and kept right on firing until he fell unconscious. Major Peterson had to drag him out of the Gate Room to the Infirmary. He just sent a message up that Judson is awake. One of the corpsmen said that he'll be able to get up and move in a few days."

"That's a relief."

Lt. Colonel Reynolds smiled quietly. "It is."

Daniel's eyebrows furrowed at the section of the desk near General Hammond. "Is the microphone _smoking_?"

"Unfortunately so," General Hammond grunted from Walter. The technician was typing furiously on the computer.

"The window appears destroyed as well," Teal'c commented.

General Hammond snorted. "There's no 'appears' about it, Teal'c. It is _quite_ destroyed. For some reason, the blast shield didn't lower until halfway through the battle. Consequently, the window—and our comm system—became collateral damage." He turned around to face SG-1 and SG-3. "But that is not important right now. What's important is that we get both of your teams out through that malfunctioning Stargate to rescue SG-21 and Alfred before something more happens to them. Walter has almost finished rebooting the system."

"Does Walter know what caused the problems with the Stargate?" Major Carter asked.

"Unfortunately, no." General Hammond shook his head. "We don't know as of yet what caused the malfunctioning, but the Stargate is almost back online. There will be time later to run full diagnostics, but it will be ready for use in about 15 minutes. We need SG-1 and SG-3 to go through the Gate as soon as it's ready. Are y'all set to go?"

"Captain Judson was injured during the fight, General Hammond. We're short a man," Lt. Colonel Reynolds announced.

"And we're also short on ammo," O'Neill supplied. "Like, _really_ short, General."

"That will be fixed," General Hammond promised. "But first, whom do you want as a temporary replacement, Lt. Colonel Reynolds?"

"Lt. Bosco."

"I'll have him sent for immediately," General Hammond said. "In the meantime, SG-1 and SG-3 will report to the armory. We'll meet back here in twenty minutes. The Stargate should be operational by then. You're dismissed."

* * *

><p>SG-1 stood suited beside SG-3, who was now joined by 1st Lt. Bosco.<p>

"SG-1 and SG-3, are both of your teams ready to go?" General Hammond's voice carried easily over the prepping guards down in the Stargate Room. Normally, he would have asked the question from the Control Room using the microphone, but the microphone was currently out of order, and, right now, he felt safer in the Stargate Room, to be honest.

"My team's rarin' to go, General," Colonel O'Neill replied.

"Mine is ready, too, General Hammond," Lt. Colonel Reynolds supplied.

General Hammond nodded in assent. "The Stargate is now operational from this end, but we do not know if the malfunctions were caused by some sort of planetary interference natural to P9X-534. You might have trouble dialing back when you return, like SG-21," General Hammond explained. "Regardless, do your best. Find and bring back SG-21 and Alfred as quickly as possible. Two of the members of SG-21, in addition to Alfred, were reported to be injured, and one member will be requiring a funeral. That was the last report from SG-21." The general paused for a moment, and then, taking a deep breath, said, "I cannot stress enough to expect the unexpected. Be prepared for a possible ambush and heavy fire, or for statuses to have changed. Just…" General Hammond paused again, and then, shaking his head, concluded with, "Just be careful. Too many strange and… unexpected things have happened today, and the day is not over."

Colonel O'Neill and Lt. Colonel Reynolds nodded. "Will do, General," O'Neill replied seriously.

General Hammond nodded. "Then you may commence with your mission. Godspeed, SG-1, SG-3." He signaled up to Walter.

There was a tense moment of anticipation in the Stargate Room while those below waited for Walter to activate the program—

The Stargate activated.

Lt. Colonel Reynolds exhaled the breath that he hadn't realized he had been holding as the Stargate spun and locked the first chevron. At least the Stargate was starting up smoothly from _this_ end…

Each of the chevrons locked without difficulty, and soon, the wormhole formed.

O'Neill couldn't shake off the heaviness in his heart that had settled there ever since he had watched his nation shot and fall through the Stargate. After all of their problems attempting to reach P9X-534 so that they could rescue the kid and SG-21, this suddenly felt too easy.

But they had a rescue mission to fulfill. There was no turning back.

SG-1 and SG-3 readied their MP5s, and then, starting with Colonel O'Neill and SG-1, they ran through the Stargate.

* * *

><p>Colonel O'Neill stepped into a grassy clearing and, moving quickly to the side, immediately readied his MP5. He tensed, looking around over the top of the gun.<p>

A light breeze blew over the tops of the tall trees and brush surrounding the clearing. There was evidence of a battle near the Stargate—dead Jaffa littering the ground, spent bullet casings, blast marks from staff weapons, a busted Death Glider a distance away, an occasional crater that was probably caused by either a Death Glider or a hand grenade—but that didn't disturb Colonel O'Neill the most.

It was the _silence_. The fact that he could hear, almost loudly, the quiet whispering of the wind as it passed lightly through the trees…

The site of a presumably large battle should not have been so quiet merely two hours later. It did not make sense.

But then again, had there been _anything_ that had made sense that day?

O'Neill internally shook his head. He did not dare do so externally, at the risk of missing a clue to an ambush or coming attack.

_Bloop._

Major Carter stepped through behind Colonel O'Neill, followed quickly by Daniel. Both had their MP5s at the ready. "Any sign of SG-21 or Alfred, Colonel?" Major Carter asked.

"Not yet," Colonel O'Neill replied, continuing to scan the area with his gaze. "Do you see any evidence?"

"Not yet," Major Carter echoed.

Teal'c exited the Stargate next. After a brief glance around over the top of his MP5, he announced, lowering the MP5 slightly, "The battle is over, O'Neill."

"Um, shouldn't we stay on guard to, uh, expect the unexpected, as General Hammond said?" Daniel asked.

Teal'c turned to Daniel as Lt. Colonel Reynolds came through the Stargate, MP5 at the ready. "Of course, Daniel Jackson," Teal'c replied, "but perhaps _this_ is the unexpected that we were expecting."

* * *

><p><em>One hour later…<em>

_Stargate Command_

"_Unscheduled off-world activation. I repeat, unscheduled off-world activation."_

General Hammond stepped up behind Walter as the fifth chevron locked into place. "Who is it?"

"We're receiving SG-1's and SG-3's IDCs, sir."

_That quickly?_ Hammond wondered, but he commanded, "Open the Iris." He left the Control Room as Walter was fulfilling the order. By the time the seventh chevron locked and the wormhole formed, the Iris was lifted. General Hammond stood beside the guards in the Stargate Room.

The wormhole rippled, and then Colonel O'Neill stepped through the Stargate, followed by the rest of SG-1. Lt. Colonel Reynolds followed afterward, two of the members of SG-3 carrying a wrapped bundle.

It was human-sized.

The Stargate shut down.

There were some definitive people missing in this group. "Report, Colonel O'Neill, Colonel Reynolds," General Hammond ordered. "Didn't I just send both of your teams on a rescue mission? _Where_ are the people that you were supposed to rescue?"

O'Neill heaved a heavy sigh, and then he said, "We recovered the body of Captain Hartwood, General, but…" O'Neill paused, before finishing slowly, "they weren't there."

"What do you mean 'they weren't there'? _Where_ could they have gone?"

"We don't know, sir, but…"

When O'Neill trailed off, Lt. Colonel Reynolds supplied quietly, "We think that they might have kidnapped by the Goa'uld, General Hammond."

General Hammond inhaled deeply. "There were some surprises while y'all were gone on this end, too. In the meantime, take the body of Captain Hartwood to the Infirmary, and then meet me in the Debriefing Room in fifteen minutes. There is much we need to discuss." General Hammond turned to walk away, but before he walked off of the platform, he turned around again and said, "I'm sorry that you didn't complete your mission, but for what it's worth, thank you for returning safely."

* * *

><p>Alfred was in a dark place.<p>

He didn't know where he was, but he knew that he was far, far away from his natural borders.

Somewhere in his subconscious, even while in this dark, dark place, Alfred could sense that he was disconnected from his land.

Where could this darkness be? His own mind? The realm of death? He needed to return to his people! He couldn't be separated from them like this…

That was only one other thing that he could sense, that he _knew_—

He wasn't dead.

He supposed that he was grateful for that much.

* * *

><p><span>AN: And there's Chapter Five!

Wow, this plot's really moving.

_Fun Fact 1:_ This chapter was mostly finished before Chapter Four (and written mostly on spare paper during my breaks at work, haha...). According to my notes, while some elements were included here, Chapter Four actually begins _next_ chapter. I am now wondering how much of those notes I will be following…

_Fun Fact 2:_ As you can tell from these Fun Facts, this story has moved beyond the 5-10 chapter range…

**[1]** _Ojo malo_ is the Spanish term for "Evil Eye," although Cpt. Rodriguez uses the "border Spanish" colloquial term that literally translates as 'eye,' which is _ojo_. While the superstition of Evil Eye is not as common in the United States, it is fairly common in the border region of the U.S. state of Texas with Mexico—the region that Captain Rodriguez hails from. (Um, spoiler alert…? Not really...?) While the legends of Evil Eye (and how to defend against it) vary across cultures, this branch of the superstition is associated with passing negative mental/psychic energy to another person (in varying degrees) through a glance or a passing thought. It is uncontrolled, and the "cure" is usually touching the person to dispel the energy. Children (especially babies) are considered the most susceptible. If a baby starts crying after you look at them, it is often considered that you "gave them _ojo_;" this is often reinforced when/if they stop crying after you touch them. Evil Eye is also common in areas such as Mexico, Central and South America, Greece, Ukraine, and Turkey. In fact, the tradition/superstition of the Evil Eye is said to have originated in Turkey and been spread through the Ottoman Empire. In Ukraine, family members will not see newborn children for three months for fear of passing illnesses through Evil Eye. In Greece, bracelets with eyes on them are sold to ward off the Evil Eye, and there is a similar custom in Mexico. In this chapter (and if used again), _ojo_ is italicized if spoken with a Spanish accent (like Rodriguez) or in quotation marks if pronounced without the accent (as Witkowski did).

So, in this chapter, Witkowski jokes that Rodriguez cursed them with _ojo malo_, but Rodriguez counters by saying that their unfortunate circumstances appear more affected by Murphy's Law. (Just in case, I'll elaborate that Murphy's Las is "Anything that can go wrong, will go wrong.") Murphy's Law is most cited to having been evoked after one asks a question such as, "What else can go wrong?" right before something else or worse occurs.

Wow, that was a _long_ explanatory note this time.

Liked? Disliked? Questions? Comments? Concrit? Please drop a review and share your thoughts!


	6. Part the Sixth

A/N: I'm sorry that this chapter took nearly a month to post. It gave me some headaches and required some rewriting, but at least it's here, right?

Disclaimer: I do not own _Hetalia Axis Powers_ or _Stargate SG-1_. They belong to their respective owners. I am making no money off of this fanfiction. It is for entertainment purposes only.

* * *

><p><em>Two hours ago…<em>

_P9X-534_

"Um… Guys…?"

With the quiet voice of Rodriguez, De Luca and Witkowski turned back to look at the Captain as soft_ clicks_ issued. Staff weapon tips ignited with a jolt of energy in the hands of Jaffa soldiers. The Lt. Colonel and Major paled.

"For the record, guys," Rodriguez said from his position by the unconscious, rescued teen, "I _didn't_ say anything this time."

"Shucks, Rodriguez. I wanted _so_ badly to blame your 'ojo' for once instead of Murphy's Law," Witkowski quipped tightly before he hissed, almost dropping his MP5 as he grasped at his bandaged side with his other hand. "I guess Murphy felt left out again, huh?" he breathed.

Rodriguez swallowed thickly, turning to the Lt. Colonel instead. He asked quietly, his voice almost a whine, "Can we call for those reinforcements again, Colonel?"

Lt. Colonel de Luca took a deep breath to calm his shaking, white-knuckled hands. He didn't know why he was still holding on to his gun so tightly; honestly, he didn't have enough ammo to fight off even one of the Jaffa surrounding them, let alone the entire group. Witkowski and Rodriguez were the same. Combined with the state of their injured… "I'm sorry, Rodriguez," he murmured grimly. Ice pooled in his stomach, his muscles tightened, rebelling against the thought—he _hated himself_ for even being willing to _consider_ it—but if it saved his team…

Well, there was no way to know that—but if he didn't, there wouldn't be anything left of them to be rescued, anyway…

Lt. Colonel de Luca placed his MP5 on the grass before slowly raising his hands in surrender. Witkowski's and Rodriguez's eyes widened.

"_Colonel—!"_

"I'm sorry, Rodriguez, Witkowski,"—_Hartwood_—"but I don't think those reinforcements are coming after all…"

* * *

><p><span>Into the Wild Blue Yonder—Part the Sixth<span>

_Earth_

_Stargate Command_

General Hammond sat down heavily in his chair at the head of the debriefing table. He rested his arms on the table before him and, taking a deep breath, said solemnly, "Before I share our news, I would like to hear just what happened during your rescue mission on P9X-534."

"But, sir, what happened while we were gone?" Carter asked again in concern.

General Hammond shook his head and said, "It was nothing life-threatening, I assure you, Major. However, while our event might tie in to yours, I would like to hear your accounts first, please."

Carter nodded reluctantly.

Colonel O'Neill leaned forward, clasping his hands quietly together as he said, "It's just like we said, General. There was no one there."

"But how could there be no one there?" questioned General Hammond. "What about the ambush that SG-21 radioed in for help against?"

"There was plenty of evidence of a battle, General Hammond, but as Colonel O'Neill just said, there was no one there to be rescued," Lt. Colonel Reynolds said from his chair opposite of Jack.

"So you recovered neither Alfred nor anyone from SG-21, other than Captain Hartwood's body?" clarified General Hammond.

Jack nodded. Daniel said from his other side, "But that's where things became strange."

"How so?"

Carter jumped in and explained, "Before recovering Captain Hartwood's body, sir, we found dead Jaffa soldiers from two different System Lords." She gestured in front of her. "Two is just unprecedented."

"May I presume that you discovered something similar when you were clearing the Stargate Room, General Hammond?" Lt. Colonel Reynolds asked.

General Hammond nodded. "Yes, Colonel. SGC personnel did discover soldiers from two different System Lords, determined based on their symbols, while we were clearing the Stargate Room. Although, given that their armor was different, that difference should have been noticed sooner or even during the battle itself."

"Not necessarily, sir. It's difficult to take in many details while you're fighting." Colonel O'Neill shrugged, and then he joked, "May we compare System Lords, then, General?"

General Hammond chuckled, but then he became serious again. "One of the symbols we didn't recognize," he admitted, "but the other symbol we did." He paused, and then, inhaling deeply, announced, "It was Ba'al's."

Silence.

"That matches our report, then, General Hammond," Lt. Colonel Reynolds offered reluctantly.

Colonel O'Neill added, "We even matched the fact that we have no idea of who the other System Lord is or was." When he received questioning looks, the Colonel added, "What? If they weren't working together and it was instead this guy going up against Ba'al—of _all_ the System Lords that he could have tangled with, I mean, _c'mon_, did he seriously have to pick_ Ba'al_?—I really think that I should include the possibility of a past tense in there."

"That is actually a good point, Colonel," said General Hammond.

"Thank you, General." O'Neill nodded and then said, "Back to our mysterious friend, though. Neither Daniel nor Teal'c recognized this System Lord's symbol, so we think that he's either a minor System Lord or an upstart. Although, there's still that possibility that he's no longer an upstart."

"For now, that possibility will not be answerable. But in the meantime, we will move on to things that might be answerable," said General Hammond. "While we were not able to confirm the identity of the System Lord while you were away, we _do _have something that may help us to identify them."

"What would that be, General Hammond?" asked Major Carter.

"A video taken from the Stargate Room, Major."

Carter's eyes widened. "Really, sir?" she asked excitedly.

"Yes, Major Carter. I have a team going through the rest of the existing tapes to see if they find anything else of interest," affirmed the General, almost hopefully. "No one here could make any sense of it, though, so we've been waiting for your return to see what y'all make of it." He reached for a small remote on the table, and, pointing at the ceiling, turned on the small overhead projector. It whirred as it activated, and the image projected a computer's desktop. General Hammond moved a ball on the remote, directing the pointer, and then he activated a program that was tabbed at the bottom of the desktop. A video file opened, but the screen stayed black.

"This video was taken by one of our security cameras—one that didn't get destroyed during the battle, anyway—as we were clearing out the dead Jaffa from the Stargate Room. It turns out that one of them was not as dead as we first thought. Major Peterson, the lights, please." After Major Peterson turned the lights off (being the closest to the door) and returned to his seat, General Hammond pressed another button. The clip began to play.

The video was gray and slightly fuzzy, but the differences between the Jaffa and SGC personnel could be clearly seen. One personnel approached a prone body and stepped back in surprise when the body shifted. The Jaffa said, _"My god will smite you. And when he does, he will rule your soul in Mictlan."_

The clip ended. "Major Peterson, the lights, please," General Hammond said again. When the lights had been restored, General Hammond closed the program and turned the projector off with his remote. "Those were his last words," General Hammond said, turning back to the SG teams in front of him. "Does anyone have any idea as to who or what he was referring to?" He looked at Daniel. "Dr. Jackson?"

Daniel shook his head, and Jack raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. Daniel sent him a withering look, but Jack was unaffected. Daniel huffed quietly under his breath and said instead, "Unfortunately, I don't, General Hammond. Based only upon that single word, though, the language sounded like it might be a Native American language. If I'm correct, then it's probably _Nahuatl_."

"Nawa-_what_?"

"_Nahuatl_, General," repeated Daniel. "It's the language of the Aztecs."

"Aztecs, as in the Aztec Empire? Their empire was destroyed by Cortez in the 1500s. Wouldn't their language be dead by now?" asked General Hammond.

Daniel shook his head. "Not any more dead than Ancient Egyptian or Latin, and Latin _is_ in fact used today—"

"Well, regardless of whether it's dead here or not—"

"—but neither _Nahuatl_ nor Latin are actually dead here on Earth," Daniel persisted. "Latin is the official language of Vatican City, the Holy See, and _Nahuatl_ is still used by a sizable portion of the Aztecs' descendants in Mexico—" **[1]**

"_The point is_, Dr. Jackson," General Hammond broke through loudly, "_can you understand it?_"

There was a second of uncomfortable silence. "Ehhh…" Daniel dragged out slowly. "I can pick up gists, but Native American languages—regardless of North, Central, or South—aren't exactly my specialty."

"I thought that your specialty was ancient writing systems and cultures?"

"It _is_ my specialty," Daniel confirmed, before trailing off uncomfortably, "I'm just more specialized in the ancient writing systems and cultures of other areas and cultures of the world…?"

General Hammond sighed, deciding not to press the matter further. Instead, he asked, "Do we have anyone who is specialized in them, then?"

"We might not need them, General Hammond, if we just need to identify the System Lord," Daniel replied quickly instead. "That I can do on my own, and I can brush up on _Nahuatl_ in the meantime."

"You didn't answer my question, Dr. Jackson," General Hammond persisted. "_Do we or do we not_ have anyone who is proficient in the Native American languages or at least the one that we need?"

Another beat of uncomfortable silence. Daniel bit his lip and held his pen tightly between his hands. Finally, he exhaled reluctantly, "Captain Eduardo Rodriguez—"

"Well, let's get him in here—"

"—of SG-21," Daniel finished quietly.

Silence.

"Oh." General Hammond sighed definitively. "So, our specialist in these languages is gone."

"And quite probably captured by the Goa'uld," added Colonel O'Neill.

"And, now, we don't even know which one," added Lt. Colonel Reynolds, "since there's no guarantee that only Ba'al survived the fight. While it's more likely that, at least at the end, they fought each other, we're no closer to knowing what it was about. And as far as we could tell, both parties had left the planet by the time that we had arrived."

"To be honest," Colonel O'Neill added slowly, "we—meaning Colonel Reynolds and myself—decided that, after recovering Captain Hartwood's body, it was safer for our parties to return rather than engage in further reconnaissance on our own."

"What do you mean by that, Colonel?"

Colonel O'Neill took a deep breath. "Well, while it's true that we don't know the purpose of their meeting, it's very likely that it ended disagreeably. We scouted beyond where we found Captain Hartwood's body and found a much larger battleground where the two sides obviously fought. Right now, we're thinking that the 'ambush' that SG-21 radioed in for help against was them walking into a battle between two Goa'uld System Lords. We believe that the outskirts of the battle spilled over into the area around the Stargate when they arrived, and SG-21 thought that they were the original targets." He sighed, leaning back in his chair. "Besides, if we didn't realize that there were two different System Lords when we were fighting in a much smaller space, why should they have caught it, since they had even less time to catch a detail like that?"

General Hammond nodded. That did make sense, and that explanation solved a mystery, but it didn't solve everything. "But then how would that explain the malfunctioning of the Stargate?"

"_That_ we still don't know, General," Colonel O'Neill replied, "but we _do_ know that we didn't find SG-21 or Alfred, and there was greater plausibility that they'd been captured than they were hiding elsewhere on the planet."

"Why is that?"

"It was very quiet, and it looked like the System Lords—if both survived—had left at least the immediate area. Unless SG-21 were chased away from the Stargate or were captured, they would have already attempted to dial home by now."

General Hammond took it all in. "Is that your only assumption?"

"There was the fact that their guns were in the clearing, suggesting that they were captured by a scouting party, and the weapons were left behind rather than carted back to the ship," Lt. Colonel Reynolds added. "The weapons we recovered near Captain Hartwood's body were MP5s, and they appeared to be from our inventory. We brought them back with us to ID for fingerprints."

"Isn't there still the possibility that they ran out of bullets and left the guns behind as useless?" General Hammond asked.

"Yes, there is that possibility," 1st Lt. Bosco said, speaking up for the first time, "but we checked the weapons while we were there, and there was still ammo, however little, in the MP5s. There is no use throwing the gun away before all of the ammo is used, regardless of the amount of the bullets that are left. And given that they all had differing amounts of ammo, it makes little sense for all of the guns to be in the same small area, unless they made a final stand—in which case, we would have found their bodies—or they were captured, and they were then forced to leave their weapons behind."

General Hammond nodded. That offered a much stronger argument that SG-21 and Alfred had been captured. "Do we have anything else besides the MP5s that we can perform some identification tests on? To prove without a shadow of a doubt that SG-21 and Alfred were in that clearing and were captured, and to justify not continuing an immediate search on the planet?"

Carter leaned forward. "During our perimeter check, sir, when we discovered and recovered Captain Hartwood's body from a nearby section of the woods, there were no other obvious signs of SG-21. We did, however, find some blood and shreds of fabric that appeared to be from BDUs in the area of Captain Hartwood's body, so we gathered samples of it and have already sent it to the lab for identification. We also found shreds of leather in the same vicinity, so we think that they might have been pieces that broke off of Alfred's bomber jacket." Major Carter bit her lip, and then she said, "If these tests prove positive, General, then, given the other evidence, it's extremely likely that they were captured, especially given that they weren't in the vicinity of the Stargate, they didn't respond to attempts of radio communication, nor could we pick up residual radio signals from their equipment or an IDC signal, the likelihood of SG-21 and Alfred having been captured by one of the Goa'uld parties is much greater."

"And if everything pointed toward their absence, there was no use in continuing a search for which we would find no one," concluded Lt. Colonel Reynolds. "We would merely be wasting time, energy, and resources when we should be looking for them elsewhere."

"Not to mention that, despite that it appeared the Goa'uld had left, there was still that nagging chance that there might have still been some that stayed behind," added Colonel O'Neill. "And if they stayed behind or actually moved to a different area of the planet to continue their fight, we wouldn't be able to help SG-21 or Alfred anyway if we stumbled into another battle blindly, as they did. We need to know for certain, preferably through a drone, whether or not the battle moved elsewhere before we can plan a rescue mission. Besides, we can't even plan a rescue mission if we don't know for sure where they are."

Daniel raised a hand slightly. "And if you need anything else, General," he murmured, "let me add one more thing: Captain Rodriguez would not have left his best friend, dead or not, alone for anything. He would have had to have been forcibly dragged from there, and there was evidence of a scuffle."

General Hammond nodded. "Then they're gone." He inhaled deeply and slowly exhaled. "That's what I was afraid of," he said wearily. "We still need to wait for the lab results, of course, but if that's the likeliest verdict, then I will need to inform the President of the day's events immediately." He pushed the chair out heavily from under him.

"General Hammond."

General Hammond paused and looked to Lt. Colonel Reynolds. "Yes, Colonel?"

"Given that the President has never been informed about the statuses of individual SGC teams before, I will presume that this is about the kid who was shot and fell through the Stargate." He hesitated, and then he asked quietly, "Why is this kid—Alfred—so important that we must inform the President?"

General Hammond exhaled heavily again, and then he replied slowly, "I wish that I could tell you that, Colonel Reynolds, but I can't. I will ask for security clearances to be provided on need-to-know bases, but until I receive the confirmation of that from the President, please accept my apology for the lack of explanation. In the meantime, just know that Alfred is very important… both for us and for our country."

With those parting words, General Hammond exited the Debriefing Room. He had an important call to make that he could only make from a red phone.

* * *

><p><em>Somewhere in the galaxy…<em>

_Thirty-two, thirty-three, thirty-four—_

Witkowski shivered.

If he said that it was only from the cold, he was lying to himself. He leaned back against the wall anyway. He hadn't even been in their tiny room for that long, and he was already counting all of the tiles on the wall across from him. Thankfully, he stopped himself before he reached thirty-five.

Counting wall tiles was for extreme boredom, not for when he had only sat in a cell aboard a Goa'uld mothership for about an hour. At least if he had to be trapped by an evil Goa'uld in a guarded prison aboard a Goa'uld mothership with nothing to do, he was trapped with his teammates.

He didn't even have gunpowder to play with, as when the Jaffa that had captured them had frisked them for weapons, they had taken away the remaining bullets that he had.

Actually, no, that wasn't true. He might still have a couple of bullets stashed in his uniform somewhere… But he would check later. He wouldn't be able to bear it if that last hope was wrong.

He looked over at his teammates. The Lt. Colonel was leaning against the wall perpendicular to his, one of his legs raised so that he could rest his arm on it while he stretched out his other leg. He had his hat pulled down over his face, so Witkowski couldn't see his expression.

The despondency was easy enough to read, though. De Luca had _never_ surrendered, not even on the missions where they had come closest to death—but they had also never been on a mission where— No, they had simply never been pushed this far before…

Witkowski inhaled shallowly, trying to avoid aggravating his wound.

No, the four—_four, weren't they still four? They had to be still four, so how could he consider otherwise_—of them really hadn't…

Rodriguez sat at end of his wall against the corner, his chin resting on his knees. His eyes stared unseeingly at the far wall, a glassy shine to them. If the light was better, Witkowski probably would have seen a tint of red upon his dark cheeks. The Zat gun stunning that had been required by the Jaffa in order to drag Rodriguez away from the clearing—_from the one who was not dead just in a coma and Hartwood would wake up soon and realize he was left behind and be really pissed at them but they'd apologize that the Jaffa had merely thought that he was dead when they were rescued_—was an invisible wound, though.

Actually, there was an invisible wound, like a shroud—_no, not a shroud, that implied_—like a veil—_no, even worse_—like a blanket that blanketed them all.

Witkowski pulled his knees up to his chest, hissing at the burn in his side, but finishing the action through stubbornly.

_Hartwood—_

Hartwood was waiting for them back in that clearing. They had to get back as soon as possible and reform SG-21, or Hartwood was going to get into a cursing match with Rodriguez, and then he and De Luca would have to suffer through profanity in multiple languages for several minutes until the Lt. Colonel broke it up with a laugh. The laugh usually came when they dared to move into Italian.

His face warmed. Why was his vision blurry?

He needed to find his bullets quickly.

His fingers fumbled in a pocket. Which pocket was it again that had the secret hole—

Ah, wrong pocket. _Which pocket?_ He couldn't see because his vision was blurring!

Where had that spot on his pant leg come from?

_Glassy blue eyes had stared at them before De Luca had closed the eyelids swiftly, but how was De Luca able to convince him to take a nap so quickly he never took a nap and barely slept on missions—_

Why was there a second spot on his arm?

_His form laid there on the grassy ground, prone, immobile, frozen in the position that he had fallen in why was he frozen it wasn't even cold he should be complaining about the dirt on his face from the explosion because he hated dirt and always made them ask him why he was in the military at all—_

_Why_ was there a third spot, and why was it wet?!

_He was much much much too pale how did De Luca or Rodriguez not_ see_, Rodriguez was half of a medic, after all, and they had to call for reinforcements again before— _

Witkowski hid his face between his knees, hiding his face and his spotted BDU.

_One was lost—_

_NO—_

_He had just refused to move—_

_He was being lazy for once in his stiff-upper lip life—_

Witkowski took a deep, shuddering breath, almost relishing in the fact that he could feel the burning in his side. It almost drowned the growing hollowness inside of himself, almost chased it away for a moment longer.

But once the physical pain began to pass away, that hollowness still remained.

But how could he still feel after all that had been _lost_—

His adrenaline was gone. His bullets were taken. The Jaffa had even taken the kid that they had rescued to some unknown place in the ship. What good had that rescue even done? Why had that rescue even been important? Even _mattered_? And—

_Why was there still water on his face?_

Witkowski shoved his hat down, hiding his eyes, like De Luca, even though his face was already hidden in between his knees.

_Hartwood—_

Witkowski inhaled a deep, shuddering breath, but the pain did _nothing_—

_Hartwood was gone._

Soldiers on the battlefield had no time to mourn—barely even time to register death, and Witkowski had fought it with everything that he could think of until the last _second_—but a POW had all the time in the world to be trapped inside his own mind.

Witkowski finally acknowledged the tears that fell, but he didn't attempt to stop them.

* * *

><p><span>AN: And that's Chapter Six! Liked? Disliked? Questions? Comments? Concerns? Constructive criticism? Please leave me a review and share your thoughts! I love to hear from you. :D

So, this chapter was originally supposed to be longer, but I was forced to cut it. Hopefully, that means that I'll finish/fix up the next section and have it posted much quicker than this one was. I should have it posted before I head back to college (the end of this month).

**[1]:** Latin _is_ in fact used as the official language of Vatican City, the Holy See of the Roman Catholic Church. If the Pope writes or sends an official document, he writes (handwrites!) and sends it in Latin. Vatican City is the smallest recognized nation in the world, located in the center of Rome, Italy. I never tried this when I had the opportunity to go there, but apparently, if you attempt to use one of their ATM machines, you have the option of making the transaction in Latin. (Well, I thought that was cool, at any rate.) Latin is also used in the Roman Rite, the Roman Catholic High Mass. Also, _Nahuatl_ is pronounced "nah-wah-_teel_" and in fact has been preserved by many of the Aztecs' descendants and is still spoken today.

_Fun fact:_ I stuck two plugs in here. Kudos if you find them!

Also for the fun of it—omake! (I'm taking another leaf out of PoisonousTiger's book, and I hope that she doesn't mind…)

Omake:

SG-3 exited the debriefing room after SG-1. Major Peterson complained, "We're part of the freaking Stargate Program. We deal with extraterrestrials at times on a daily basis, fight battles in a war that our nation as a whole will never hear about, travel the universe through an intergalactic portal—and our security clearances aren't high enough?! What's up with that?"

O'Neill exhaled solemnly and then placed his hand on the SG-3 team member's shoulder. "Peterson, I must tell you the truth—there is no such thing as a high enough security clearance."


	7. Part the Seventh

Disclaimer: I do not own _Hetalia Axis Powers_ or _Stargate SG-1_. They belong to their respective owners. I am making no money off of this fanfiction. It is for entertainment purposes only.

* * *

><p><span>Into the Wild Blue Yonder—Part the Seventh<span>

_Earth_

_Stargate Command_

General Hammond walked into the Control Room. "Any news, Walter?"

Walter Harriman shook his head. "Not yet, sir." He paused his typing on the keyboard and looked up to his commanding officer, a confused frown on his face. "I thought that you were going to be on the phone with the President, sir?"

"I was. I just got off the phone with a list of instructions, and I have some for you, too." General Hammond sighed. "I'm about to hold the debriefing meeting to give SG-1 and SG-3 their new orders, but I would like to know if there has been anything new here first, before I give you yours."

"I understand, sir." Walter nodded before returning to his computer screen. He pointed to a window that popped up. "Well, as you can tell from this end, sir, we're almost done running diagnostics. It appears that the Stargate is fully operational, with nothing that can support the recent malfunctioning."

"Nothing at all?"

"Nothing that's popped up as of yet, at least, sir," the tech amended. He resumed typing. "We're still looking into other possibilities, like a Stargate version of a computer virus or a short-circuiting in the device itself. We're also planning connection checks with randomly selected planets that have proven to be uninhabited to see if this occurs again."

The General shook his head. "I would like you to leave that last check until the very end, Walter. I don't want to risk our Stargate breaking down if this is some kind of inherent virus that occurs after we run it too long. In fact, you will inform me when you've reached that point so that you may obtain my permission before you start dialing random Stargate addresses. You have my go ahead for the remaining tests, but I'd actually prefer it if the last check was not performed unless it is as a last resort."

Walter nodded. "Yes, sir." He paused for a second, and then he said, "What are my current orders?"

"Ah, I'm sorry," General Hammond apologized. He had almost forgotten to give Walter his orders. "I need you to please contact our allies and see if you can get through to any of them. We're going to need a lot of help if we want to find SG-21 and Alfred so that we can rescue them."

"On it, sir!"

General Hammond turned to leave, but upon seeing the bustle of activity within the Control Room, asked, "What are the rest of y'all up to?"

Harriman decided to simply cease attempting to type and swiveled his chair around. Pointing at the various groups, he said, "We're running diagnostics on this end. Some of our techs over there—" he pointed to the other end of the computer desk where the smoking microphone no longer stood but instead had been replaced by two techs now huddled beneath the table, poking at various colored wires, "—are attempting to fix the communications system. A couple of us have run down to supply to see if they can replace the window, the microphone, and the speakers. The speakers and cameras need to be replaced in the Stargate Room, too, but we're focusing on the Control Room for now. As soon as the Control Room is operational again, we'll move down below."

He paused for a second to catch his breath, and then he continued, "Those guys—" he pointed to a set of twin techs in the back corner that were huddled around a couple of computers before returning to face the General, "—are reviewing all of the tapes from the battle, as you ordered earlier, sir, to see if they find something. So far, though, they haven't found any—"

"_General Hammond!"_

General Hammond and Walter Harriman turned back in unison to the far right corner, where the technician twins were now waving excitedly in front of a computer screen. "—thing," Walter finished belatedly. "But now I think that they just did, sir." Walter pushed himself out of his chair quickly.

General Hammond hurried over to the computer in the far corner, Walter close behind.

"Look, sah—!"

"—_we found something, sah!_" finished the second exuberantly as General Hammond and Harriman reached the back corner.

"And what exactly did y'all find?" General Hammond asked.

"_Watch, sah!"_ they said in unison.

General Hammond leaned over to see the computer screen as the first twin rewound the clip. The second added, "We almost didn't believe it the fahst time that we saw it," before the first pressed the Play button.

The clip was fuzzy, starting from the moment before Alfred had fallen through the Stargate. The camera angle was off, but considering that it was the from the only camera in the Stargate Room that had not been destroyed, General Hammond did not feel inclined to complain, although the angle made the image difficult to see.

The content outweighed the clarity, however.

"I _can't_ believe it…" Hammond breathed. "Play it again!"

"Yes, sah!" the first one said in what Hammond finally processed as a deep Southern accent that erased his r's, while the second chimed in a similar drawl, "See? You had the same 'eaction that we did, sah."

General Hammond almost cracked a smile, but he was too riveted to the screen.

It was gray. It was fuzzy. Its angle placed the majority of the action in the bottom right-hand corner and almost made you squint to see it.

But if watching his nation take two staff weapon shots and fall through the Stargate were not hard enough to watch, it was the immediate aftereffect that proved almost incredible to believe: a Jaffa soldier—one with the unknown System Lord's armor—opened fire upon the soldier of Ba'al's army that had fired upon his nation and shot him from behind. Ba'al's soldier crumpled forward, wounded—but he didn't die, because a few seconds later, he slowly forced himself up, fired three more shots at both SGC personnel and the other army's soldiers alike, and then he crawled toward and threw himself through the Stargate, escaping back to the other side.

General Hammond whistled before facing the twin techs again. "Is this all you found?" he asked excitedly.

The second—Techical Sergeant Francis Robert Ostman, General Hammond finally remembered—nodded. "This is as fah as we've come in the tape, sah, and it was the fahst time that we saw something like that th'ough the melee."

"We-ah planning on sepahating the impohtant clips following this one, sah, and then 'eviewing the fahst half of this he-yah tape again to see if we missed anything, once we-ah done, sah," finished the first twin, Technical Sergeant Dominic Lee Ostman, Hammond also recalled.

General Hammond nodded. "Good, you two do that."

"_Yes, sah!"_ they chorused, before returning with gusto to the computer screen, murmuring excitedly in what Hammond finally recognized as a Georgian accent—the deep southern end of the U.S. State of Georgia, though, probably near Savannah.

Walter looked worriedly to his commanding officer. "Sir, what does this mean?"

"Well, Walter…" General Hammond exhaled slowly. "Here's _one_ of our answers, to say the least…"

* * *

><p><em>Somewhere in the galaxy…<em>

The Jaffa soldier's boots clicked quietly against the tiled floor, his Matok staff held tightly in his hand. He took a breath and then pressed a button along the wall. The door slid open with a quiet whirring, and he entered the cold antechamber of the Goa'uld mothership. His master stood with his back to him, observing something upon a different monitor.

The soldier dropped to one knee and, keeping his staff upright, bowed his head. "My lord."

The Goa'uld turned, his cloak flowing gently with the movement. "Yes?" The baritone voice was almost a quiet rumble.

"As you have ordered, we have captured the Tauri team that we found upon the planet. They fared no better than your enemy's forces," the Jaffa announced proudly.

"Of course they did." The Goa'uld smiled confidently, but then he asked, eyes slightly narrow, "But they weren't SG-1, were they?"

The Jaffa looked up and swallowed nervously. He admitted reluctantly, "No, my lord."

"And neither did any of our teams return through the Stargate from the Tauri homeworld?" It was more of a statement than a question.

"None but a single Jaffa, my lord," came the reluctant answer. "However, his injuries were severe, and he died upon rejoining our forces on the planet."

Such an opportunity _wasted_. The Goa'uld sighed minutely. Surely, there would be other opportunities... "Such a pity," was the careless reply. The Goa'uld turned away to contemplate again.

"My lord?"

The Goa'uld turned at the voice, disinterest clear upon his face.

The Jaffa soldier continued persistently, "There is one more thing, my lord. The soldier who returned shared something interesting before he died, and there was fruit that came of it."

The Goa'uld raised an eyebrow. "Interesting?" the Goa'uld echoed. "Please, do tell me."

The Jaffa soldier straightened. He continued, "My lord, he claimed that there was a Tauri boy more powerful than anything he had seen of their kind on the Tauri homeworld. He could punch Jaffa with his fists and send them flying. Apparently, he even took two Matok blasts before he was felled, and one was a direct blast."

A Tauri child who could fight with his bare fists and nearly survive staff weapon blasts…? This _was_ interesting. Intriguing, even. "What kind of weapon was he using?" the Goa'uld asked. He finally turned completely to face the soldier.

"We do not know, my lord. The soldier did not see any sort of enhancement, weapon, or shield upon his body. However, after being shot, the child fell through the Stargate. The soldier returned in the hope of finding the child, but his injuries were too severe, and the child was not to be found. However, he passed along his story and description to the soldiers that found him."

The Goa'uld gestured for the Jaffa to continue.

The Jaffa nodded. "There were scouting parties still out looking for the Tauri team that was believed to be SG-1. Although they were not SG-1, they found a Tauri male of the description the soldier brought back."

A second of silence passed. "And…?"

"It is a… strange creature, my lord. It appears to be a member of the Tauri, but…" He shook his head nervously.

"But?" the Goa'uld prompted calmly.

The Jaffa shifted. He gripped his Matok staff tighter between his fingers. "My lord, he took _two_ Matok blasts—one to the chest and one to the abdomen—with the latter yielding a _hole_ through him, and…"

"And?" he prompted quickly.

The Jaffa swallowed thickly. He paled. ""M-my lord," the soldier stammered. "He's… he's still _alive_."

The Goa'uld raised his eyebrows, something akin to excitement or anticipation in his veins, but he wasn't certain of which. "He's still alive?" he echoed incredulously. How was it even _possible_—

The Jaffa nodded anxiously. "We separated him from the rest of the Tauri, placing him in a different holding cell." Another beat of silence passed, and then he murmured quickly but hesitantly, "Could he possibly be a god like yourself, my lord?"

The Goa'uld chuckled mirthlessly. "We shall see." Sweeping his hand to the side, his loose clothing billowing in the process, he ordered, "Take the Tauri-like creature to one of my observation rooms. I wish to test him myself. The others can wait." There was much time until they returned to his newest outpost, after all.

And this one would not be found—or destroyed—by one such as Yu so easily.

Or upstarts who thought that they could match wits or strength with him.

The Jaffa bowed quickly. "Yes, my lord Ba'al!"

Ba'al smiled as the Jaffa departed. Perhaps this strange creature would even make up for his disappointment for having failed to capture O'Neill and SG-1.

It was a shame, really. He had prepared his new outpost especially with them in mind.

* * *

><p>The cold brushed against Ba'al when the door slid open, but he brushed off the grasping chill, sweeping silently instead into the golden-tiled observation room. The supposedly immortal creature was easy to spot, lying on a table in the center of the octagonal room, motionless and actually quite death-like from a distance. He approached the table with measured steps.<p>

Upon reaching the creature, Ba'al peered downward over his nose.

He appeared quite… Tauri-like in appearance, as his soldier had informed him. Unassuming even, like O'Neill.

Ba'al hmphed quietly. It was an inaccurate metaphor. O'Neill was only unassuming for the first two seconds—the time it took for him to open his mouth. He dearly hoped that this Tauri would not be same, but he was afraid to hold his breath on it. Only time would tell the accuracy of that, though.

He leaned over, checking the side of the table. The lights flashed in a pattern of first, second, and fifth of ten small, square lights—first two blue, followed by one white. The Tauri was stable, if unconscious. Ba'al was fine with that for the moment. He had plenty of information to gather before he needed his Tauri subject to be awake.

No, not Tauri, Ba'al reminded himself. Stepping over to the computer system alongside the far wall, he acknowledged that his computers confirmed the suspicions of the soldier. His genetic code and chemical structure mimicked that of a Tauri—a carbon-based creature with DNA residing inside pliable cells—but the carbon content in his cells told a vastly different story from the average Tauri that he had studied. (Even in comparison to O'Neill, although he was not the average Tauri in the least, given the fact that he harbored the Ancient gene…)

No, this child was not a member of the Tauri, although his genetic make-up was one _like_ a Tauri. According to the rate of decomposition of the carbon in his cells as measured by his computers, this child was around two hundred and fifty years old—still securing Ba'al as very much the child's senior, to his surprised relief, despite the boy's apparent indestructibility.

What was this child, then?

He was tall, perhaps slightly taller than Ba'al himself (not that he had any plans of admitting that aloud). He had flaxen hair, one strand of which stuck up at an odd angle that Ba'al had not realized was possible under normal conditions for the Tauri race. He was paler than Ba'al and the average Tauri, but given the wounds the computers reported that he had sustained, his degree of paleness was most likely temporary. He wore that Tauri invention that allowed the user to correct their vision—glasses, that was the term. And, surprisingly, they had survived the fight that he had just participated in. What if the material was not the normal silicon dioxide—no, the computer claimed that it was the normal glass compound. As Ba'al moved around the table, studying the child, he wondered off-handedly how bad the child's vision was. Was a loss of vision a side-effect of his gifts or simply something inherent in his genetics…?

What struck Ba'al the most was his apparent age. He appeared to be a boy on the cusp of manhood, no more than eighteen or nineteen years old, possibly twenty, despite the truth revealed in his carbon dating. (But, really, Ba'al knew that he shouldn't be so focused on comparing the child's apparent with his true age, as apparent age was no marker for true age. True age was hidden easily enough beneath apparent age, as he and any other sarcophagus user knew very well.)

The boy was lean, fit, but there was still a layer of baby fat that added to his youthful appearance and did some work to hide the muscles. He was dirty (both soil and blood) and bruised from the confrontation that left him in this state. He was also sporting quite a fever (probably instigated by his body to fight off possible infections), but the temperature of the room was keeping it in a safe range (at least, for a normal Tauri).

A thick, lined—_ruined_—dark brown leather jacket had been removed from his person and placed on a separate table near the boy. Ba'al would study the jacket for more information later, but for now, he would focus upon the boy. With his jacket removed, the fake-Tauri was left in boots, torn rough blue pants that the computers identified as denim, and a nearly destroyed cotton shirt. He had bandages partially wrapped around his chest and abdomen.

Ba'al was eager to view the wound. According to the report, this Tauri who was not a Tauri had taken two Matok blasts before falling presumably unconscious. If he let this opportunity pass without investigating them, then he was no scientist.

The System Lord stepped toward the other end of the table and pressed a small button in a second panel. A drawer extended from the underside of the table, filled with an array of shining metal tools and small supplies, all lying neatly next to the other in the drawer. He reached slowly into it, pausing for a second before selecting a scapel-sized knife with a thin blade. He then pressed the button again, and the drawer closed with a quiet _whirr_.

Ba'al studied the child quietly for another moment. He hesitated for a second, uncertain of which to start at—how strong was this child's immune system while he was injured, and what if he injured him during his study?—but then he decided that that was a needless worry. If this Tauri-like boy could survive being shot twice with a Matok staff, then surely, he could survive for a time without his bandages so that Ba'al could study them.

Besides, if this child was weak enough to die merely from having his wounds exposed to the air—air not sterilized the way that he kept it in his observation rooms, no less—then the boy would not have succeeded in catching the System Lord's interest. Or even be worth the trouble of studying now.

Scientific anticipation coursed through Ba'al. He stepped beside the table and gripped the dirty bandages carefully, holding them above the child's burning skin so as to avoid cutting the creature. His knife cut easily through the dirty bandages and the bloodied shirt, starting at the bottom of the stained fabric and working carefully around his wounded areas.

There would be no way to observe the child's healing processes if there were contaminated fabrics in the way, much less if the fabrics themselves were hindering the healing through infections rather than imposing repair—

Ba'al pulled one section of the cloth and bandages away, his eyes widening. Quickly and deftly, he cut through and pulled away what was left.

One wound was shallow—the chest wound. He had obviously been shot from a distance and an angle, for it was not fatal or been skillfully shot (either that, the boy was more adept at evasion than he thought, even while injured, or there were serious problems in the training regimens of his soldiers…).

The abdominal wound, on the other hand…

If Ba'al were not observing so clinically or been desensitized to wounds due to his prolonged usage of the sarcophagus, he would almost describe the stomach wound as gruesome, or something to be fascinated by in a macabre fashion. Instead, he noted that the Matok staff blast had indeed been fired at close range, probably from no more than three to five feet away, given the fact that it had ripped a hole right through the boy's abdomen.

He almost would not have believed it possible for him to be able to view the shiny surface of the observational table through the child's body if he were not currently doing so.

A section of the boy's spine had to be gone, in addition to several major organs having been completely destroyed, ruptured, or damaged. It was true that Matok blasts cauterized the wounds—and it was possible that was the only reason he survived—but that just made the image all the most difficult to tear his eyes away from. How had the rupturing of the organs not caused a full system shutdown immediately upon impact…?

Or perhaps this unconscious state was his body's full shutdown?

Ba'al watched the boy's chest minutely rise and fall, albeit at much longer intervals and shallower intakes than normal—_but he was still inhaling oxygen_. He reached out to touch the artery at the side of the boy's neck and verified what the computer had told him—_there was a pulse_, however minutely faint and far-between it was.

How was this even possible?

This child should be dead—especially because he had the make-up of a Tauri.

How was this Tauri child that was not a Tauri still alive without the use of a sarcophagus? Or a symbiote?

What was holding this child to life?

_How was he not dead?_

For the first time since the System Lord could not recall, Ba'al's head was swimming with more questions than answers. Knowing that observation was the only path toward his answers—short of capturing another Tauri team like SG-1—he leaned closer to study the wounds.

Ba'al's heart nearly skipped a beat.

The tiniest layer of fresh, pink flesh was building around the wounds—_the boy was already healing on his own, no matter how slowly…_

Not even symbiotes could heal that quickly from such damage. Probably only a sarcophagus could.

Ba'al nearly dropped the knife as he hurried back to the computers. According to the diagnostics, the boy's cells were slowly multiplying—not merely dividing. That probably had something to do with the fact that the boy was much older than he appeared without a sarcophagus. How was it possible—no, that was not an answer that the computer could give him then. However, the computer did say that the rate of cell multiplication had slowed immensely since arrival on to the ship and even more so upon entrance into his observation chamber.

The System Lord furrowed his eyebrows. What did declination of regeneration preclude? Was the boy simply at the peak of his healing capabilities and would not fully recover, that his system had been overwhelmed with the extent of the internal destruction? Or was there something else at hand here, maybe a consequence of cell multiplication versus cell division? Did this boy's 'immortality' have some drawbacks that he did not understand yet…?

It was not of major importance now, but to glean the answers, it would require more observance and possibly verbal answers. It didn't mean that Ba'al couldn't—_wouldn't_—pursue this avenue until he had exhausted its information source and discovered its secrets. It simply meant that he would require a patience that, given the height of his current excitement and anticipation, was difficult for him to achieve.

But he had to achieve it. If he failed to curb it, he might lose this new test subject.

The boy needed to survive and heal quickly. Ba'al would do whatever was in his power to make sure that that happened, even if had to use the sarcophagus and possibly ruin all of his data, forcing him to start anew.

Ba'al _itched_ for answers. This child had sparked his scientific curiosity, and the flames would not be quenched until he had extracted all of the information that he could from this new source. Oh, the _prizes_ those answers could bring for him when he found them.

It might even be a greater prize than the spoil of war he just obtained from his enemy. Upstarts were _so_ amusing. They always thought that they actually had a _chance_ against someone such as him…

This venture had proven to be quite the windfall indeed.

"Teach me your secrets, Tauri child who is not a Tauri," Ba'al murmured to the prone form on the table. "Teach me, or I will simply take them all from you myself—and I will do whatever it will take for me to acquire them."

* * *

><p><span>AN: No, Alfred! D: You're about to become Ba'al's test subject—you need to wake up!

Please don't take all of what I said medically at face value. I'm not a doctor, and I have had limited medical experience.

Here's hoping that I didn't completely screw up the Georgian accent (the U.S. State of Georgia, not the country of Georgia, just to be clear…). I love how Mark Twain includes accents in his works, and this was my (probably failed) attempt at writing an accent, but I really wanted to give it a shot. The Georgian accent really does delete the r's, though (which, for people like me who have lived in Georgia and picked up that accent, makes learning Romance languages and anything that requires trilling of the r's quite a pain…).

As an added bonus, an omake! :D (It shares my feelings on what it's like writing Ba'al…)

Omake:

_Spirit Seer:_ Perhaps it's because I haven't watched an episode where you were featured in a while, but you've been the quietest character. *holds up notepad and pen* What are your plans?

_Ba'al:_ The little Tauri female actually thinks that she can write the mighty Ba'al… This will be quite amusing… *turns away*

_Spirit Seer:_ Hey, you! Get back here! If you don't start talking, I'll rely on the Wikipedia notes to write you!

_Ba'al:_ *studies author and scoffs* Perhaps it will be worth my time to speak after all…

I _so_ wanted to include this in the first Author's Note, but then that would have spoiled the surprise of one of my System Lords…

Please leave a review and share your thoughts!


	8. Part the Eighth

A/N: This chapter is longer than usual. I wanted to cut off a few pages somewhere, but I just couldn't find a nice place to cut and push it into the next chapter. And it's only made longer by the monstrous Author's Note at the end that might rival the Author's Note for _Part the Fifth_. If the length bothers you, I'm sorry…

I also apologize for typos. I finished my fact-checking and felt that I'd held this from you long enough.

But on an amazing note, this story has now accrued over 2800 hits in addition to 14 reviews, 26 favorites, and 31 follows. Y'all are AWESOME! Thank you so much for your support! Every time I see that counter increase or receive something in my inbox, it encourages me to continue.

Disclaimer: I do not own _Hetalia Axis Powers_ or _Stargate SG-1_. They belong to their respective owners. I am making no money off of this fanfiction. It is for entertainment purposes only.

* * *

><p><span>Into the Wild Blue Yonder—Part the Eighth<span>

_Stargate Command_

The first thing that Jack, Sam, and Teal'c noticed when they arrived to check on the archaeologist in his office that night was the dimmed lights. The second was the doctor himself, almost appearing to be hiding amidst several piles of opened, stacked books. He sat nearly hunched over in his chair as he clacked furiously away on his computer keyboard.

"How are you able to read in this light, Daniel?" Sam asked concernedly as she gently maneuvered around one of the book piles to reach her teammate.

"I think that he's using the light from the computer screen," Jack said.

Daniel rolled his eyes. "Haha." He pushed his glasses up his nose. "Actually, the lights are dimmer in my office than elsewhere on base to protect the artifacts and texts that I have here when I'm studying them. However, they also dim automatically when there isn't a lot of movement to conserve power." He glanced up at the ceiling. "I don't know why th—_gah!_" He rubbed his eyes to chase away the black spots littering his vision.

"Delayed reaction?" Jack gestured to the ceiling lights, but he avoided staring directly into the light, as Daniel had done right when the light brightened.

"I have no idea," Daniel sighed, shaking his head slightly. "It might have reacted to your movement as you entered." The spots finally disappeared, so he turned back to the computer screen. "But, quite frankly, I don't particularly care. I have more important things on my mind right now than being concerned about my office's light bulbs."

Sam noticed with a start the plethora of window tabs littering the bottom of Daniel's computer screen. "How many internet windows do you have _open_, Daniel?"

"Eh… a lot?" Daniel admitted sheepishly, but he finished excitedly, "But I've had some progress! Check this out." He maneuvered the mouse for a moment and then clicked on one of the tabs. An image of a pyramid in what appeared to be a jungle appeared. "No, that's not it. Which one was it again…?"

"Are you sure you know how to navigate through your windows, Daniel?" Jack joked drily.

"It's here somewhere!" Daniel clicked on a couple more tabs, and two internet articles appeared instead.

Sam frowned, concerned. "Why do you have so many tabs open?"

Daniel exhaled tiredly as he continued to search through the tabs, not sure if he hadn't closed it by accident. "I open up everything that might be useful until I prove that it's not, and then some things I keep up to cross-reference, and others I hold until I print it to file or otherwise save what I want. You know what a lengthy process proper research requires, Sam—_ah!_ Here it is." Daniel rolled his chair back a little so that Jack, Sam, and Teal'c could lean in and see.

Daniel had pulled up a screenshot of what appeared to be a black and white drawing of a person. The drawing was squarish in style, and the figure appeared to be either half-standing or squatting. He wore elaborate clothing and headdress.

"Is that a man or a woman?" Jack asked.

"It's a _man_, Jack," Daniel huffed. "I realize that the carving's style is difficult to decipher when viewing, but he _obviously_ lacks what is necessary for him to be otherwise."

"I don't see how I'm supposed tell that it's a guy when _nothing_ is shown for me to tell by, Daniel. Unless you're seeing something I'm not."

"I think it's an unusual style myself," Sam smoothed quickly before an argument could escalate, "but I would say that he's definitely from Mexico, Central, or South America. Who is he?"

"This is Mictlantecuhtli, the 'King of Mictlan,' who, according to Aztec myth—"

"Micty—_what?_"

"King of Mictlan!" Sam repeated in her excitement, interrupting Jack's question. "That's what that Jaffa said in the video!"

Daniel nodded. "According to my research, Mictlantecuhtli was the Aztec god of the underworld."

"The underworld?"

"Yeah. According to the Spanish Codex that was taken when they conquered the Empire, Mictlantecuhtli is paralled with Lucifer. According to that," Daniel summed up, "we'd have another Goa'uld besides Sokar who decided to be the Devil."

"So this guy is potentially another Sokar?" Sam grimaced. "I'm not sure that I like the sound of that…"

"Well, I'm not sure that he'd be another Sokar, per se, Sam." Daniel shrugged. "The region that Mictlantecuhtli rules is the bottommost pit of the Underworld, which the Aztecs believed was cold and filled with ice. According to Aztec lore, he simply ruled the dead, not necessarily the evil. However, if this is the unknown System Lord, what he's become now is anyone's guess." He paused for a moment, and then added as an afterthought, "However, if you were comparing this to Dante's _La Divina Commedia_, he actually _would_ be closer to Lucifer, given that his region is ice."

"All right, so he's still close to Lucifer literarily. But—" Jack pointed at the screen. "—_this_ Lucifer doesn't have three heads nor gigantic bat wings."

Daniel leaned back in his chair. "Well, yeah, but—_hey!_" Daniel's head snapped around. He stared at Jack. "Why didn't you tell me that you've read Dante's _Divine Comedy_? When I asked you that question last week, you said that you hadn't!"

Jack grimaced. "You weren't supposed to know that. Please pretend that you didn't hear anything."

"_Jack!"_

"All right, all right!" Jack looked away sheepishly. "_Yes_, I've read _The Divine Comedy_. In _English._" When Daniel continued staring intently at him, Jack continued, "I haven't learned Italian yet, okay? You asked me last week whether I'd read _La Divina Commedia_, not _The Divine Comedy_, so I said no, of course."

"Wait, you just said 'yet,' sir," Sam said in surprise. "How many languages do you speak?"

Jack turned his head slowly to look directly at Sam as he placed his hands on his hips. "You weren't supposed to know that either." He paused for a second, thinking. "Can I order you to forget it?"

"He speaks more languages than he'd admit to, Sam…" Daniel griped quietly with a roll of his eyes.

"_Daniel…"_

"What?" Daniel shrugged innocently at Jack. "I keep telling you that you shouldn't hide it. Not that I even _know_ how many you can speak, since you haven't _told _me."

"Um, _hello?_" Jack gestured to Daniel and then the computer. "Linguistics is _your_ job. You're the language expert that can translate all of the alien languages that we encounter. Just because I can speak a few languages doesn't mean that I could actually _help_ you."

"But if you would tell _which_ languages that you can speak, I could make that determination for myself," Daniel said innocuously.

"Yeah, sir," chimed Sam.

Jack looked at Sam. Then he turned his slowly and looked at Daniel. Then he turned to Teal'c. "I think I'm being ganged up on, Teal'c."

Teal'c inclined his head. "I am also interested in learning how many of your languages you are able to speak, O'Neill."

"_Mutiny,"_ Jack groaned dramatically.

A second of silence passed, and then Sam said, "C'mon, sir, what's the harm in saying how many languages you can speak?"

Jack placed his hands on his hips. "Because then that would be _telling_."

"Please, Jack?" Daniel asked. He stared innocently up from his chair.

Jack looked down at Daniel. "No." He turned around to Teal'c. "That goes for you, too, Teal'c. Thanks for being my _back-up_," he grumbled.

"You are welcome, O'Neill."

O'Neill threw his hands up in the air before slapping them on his face and looking away. _"Gah!"_

Sam laughed. It started as a quiet chuckle, but it grew to full-throated laughter. Jack looked at her confusedly. "…Are you all right, Carter?"

Sam nodded, laughing behind her hand. "It was just—your_ face_—!"

"What _about _my face…?"

"It was just _funny_!" Sam doubled over, gasping for breath between her laughter.

Jack looked over at Daniel, and they both shared a look. "I think that this one needs to get some sleep."

Daniel nodded. "Yeah, I think Sam just became punchy from fatigue. And it is actually quite disturbing."

"I'm sorry," Sam said, catching her breath again. "With everything that's happened today, I've just been so tense." She took a deep breath, inhaling and exhaling slowly. She wiped her eyes on her sleeve. "Wow. I can't believe that just happened."

"Eh, don't worry about it, Sam," Daniel said, answering both for himself and Jack. He stifled a yawn. "Actually, I think that we all need to get to bed. I've been tired since I sat down. What time is it…?" He looked at his watch. "Wow, it's already almost midnight. And we still need to meet with General Hammond about the new status update."

Sam stifled a yawn, the fatigue from the laughing burst washing over her. "Did he say when he was going to call?"

Jack shook his head. "No, but—"

The phone rang.

Jack sighed dramatically. "I'm being interrupted for the last time today." He glanced at his teammates for a moment, and then he said, as Sam walked over to the far wall to pick up the phone, "Well, I'm being interrupted by the _phone_ for the only time today." Sam reached for the phone. "Well, it'd better make this the last time today."

"Hello?" Sam asked into the receiver. All of the rest of SG-1 turned toward her. "Yes, sir, this is Major Carter." Pause. "Yes, sir, we're all here in Daniel's office." She chuckled. "Yeah, that would explain why you didn't reach us at any of the phones in our rooms, sir." Pause. "Sorry, sir, what was that?" Pause. "Oh, all right. That sounds great. I'll let them know, sir." Pause. "Yes, sir. Good-bye."

Sam walked back over to where SG-1 was congregated around Daniel's desk. "General Hammond has called a meeting in the Debriefing Room."

"Awesome. Let's get this over with so that we can all get some sleep. You can't fight with a sleepless body." Jack led the way to the door and opened it with much gusto, Teal'c following behind him. O'Neill's voice trailed off as he passed through the doorway, "Well, you _could_, theoretically, but it's not really advisable. Been there, tried that…"

Daniel turned back to his desk, shuffling among the stacks of books.

Sam moved to follow O'Neill out of Daniel's office, but when she saw that Daniel hadn't risen, she turned back to the archaeologist. "Aren't you coming, Daniel?" she asked over the sound of the shutting door.

"I am. I just need to copy this information to my flash drive." Daniel continued searching. "I need to report this to General Hammond, but if I can't take it with me, then I can't explain it as well during the meeting. I need the image."

"I'll help you look." Sam picked up a stack of books. After she had moved it to a different table, she glanced at the titles and then said, "Actually, I've been meaning to ask you, Daniel. Where did you get all of these books on the Aztecs? I've looked at your shelves before out of curiosity, one of the times I was in here, but I don't remember seeing these."

Daniel paused, halfway through moving a different stack. He finished the action, setting it beside Sam's. Finally, he said quietly, "That's because they're not mine."

"Then whose are they?" Sam asked in surprise.

Daniel moved back beside his computer to grab another stack. He answered quietly, "They're Captain Rodriguez's. He has a similar problem as me where we have more books than we sometimes know what to do with, but he got stuck with a smaller office. When he ran out of shelf space a couple of months ago, he asked if he could house some of his books here. I was able to fit an extra bookcase in here, but it wasn't full yet. Since I refused to accept rent, he said that whatever he left here, I could use without asking permission. As long as I took care of them, of course. But what scholar doesn't take good care of their books, borrowed or otherwise."

He laughed mirthlessly. "It's funny, though. The fact that they were waiting here when we came back from P9X-534. It's like he _knew_ that I would need his books, his specialty, and that I wouldn't have used them unless he'd already given his permission."

For a second, his mind drifted back to the last time that he had seen Captain Rodriguez. It had been a couple of weeks ago, and the other linguist had entered Daniel's office with a greeting, his arms laden with books.

"_More books, Eduardo? I may have to increase your rent soon," joked Daniel._

"Ándale_, Daniel, you know that you always wanted to read more books on the Sun Kingdoms," Rodriguez returned as he walked past Daniel's desk. He bent down beside the bottom shelf of the newest bookcase and proceeded to shelve the new books. "Think of them as a future gift. Since some of the notes I've written in here mention my work, they can't go home. So if I die young, consider them yours. Nathan's studious, but he's heard enough about the subject from me that he would probably bury them with me rather than read them. Or burn them and then dump the ashes on my gravestone, joking that I'd know which ashes came from which books. I'd prefer it if they were read."_

"_All right, then, Eduardo. But do note that leaving books in my possession is a dangerous gambit. Once they enter through that door, I'm subject to reading them at any time, and I don't return books until I've finished reading them."_

_Rodriguez laughed. "_Como digas_, Daniel." _**[1]**

Daniel shifted the last stack to the side without moving it off of the table. "Hey," he murmured, "I think I found my flash drive."

* * *

><p>SG-1 walked slowly through the doorway into the debriefing room, closely followed by an equally exhausted SG-3. They dropped into their chairs heavily (with the exception of Teal'c, who, to Jack's chagrin, still managed to seat himself with grace). General Hammond walked in a moment later and sat down at the head of the table, appearing almost haggard from the stress of the day. "I got off of the phone with the President a little while ago," he announced. "I also have news concerning the tapes of the battle earlier today, but that can be shared momentarily." He turned to look at Daniel. "First, have you found out anything about our mysterious System Lord, Dr. Jackson?"<p>

Daniel nodded. "Actually, I have sir." He passed his flash drive over to General Hammond. "Could you plug this into your computer so that I could use the overhead projector?"

"Of course, Dr. Jackson." General Hammond rose from his chair. He plugged Daniel's flash drive into the computer in the corner of the room, and then he used his remote to turn the projector on. As the machine whirred, signaling its activation, General Hammond passed the remote to Daniel before signaling to the guards in the corner to turn off the lights.

The lights flicked off as the projector image brightened. Daniel navigated the computer remotely until he found the file that he needed. "Ah, here you are…" The same image that SG-1 had seen in Daniel's office became projected on the wall.

Daniel pushed himself tiredly out of his chair and proceeded to the front of the room. "As we all remember, the Goa'uld in the video alluded to a 'King of Mictlan'. Well, in my research, I found one such mythological King of Mictlan." He gestured to the colored image. "This is Mictlantecuhtli, the Aztec God of the Underworld."

Jack rubbed his eyes. "Oh, yeah, you didn't finish telling us about that Micty guy earlier…"

Daniel sighed. "Honestly, Jack. It's _Mictlantecuhtli_. If you can't say his name, then say the Goa'uld of Mictlan, or something."

"I think I like Micty better."

"_Jack…"_

"I mean, how do his Underworld residents remember his _name_?"

"I'm sure that, if you were used to names in _nahuatl_, Jack, then it would be easier to remember."

"I want to hear you say his name five times fast."

Daniel chuckled lightly, but ignored the challenge. He gestured to the computer screen. "Anyway, Mictlantecuhtli is the Aztec god of the Underworld. He is one of the most prominent Death gods, and he ruled the Underworld with his wife, Mictecacihuatl. Their region was cold and icy. Although the Spanish Codex identified him with Satan, Mictlantecuhtli was the king of the souls of the dead, not the souls of the evil."

Sam leaned on the table to get a second look at the picture. "I wish that there was a way to tell from the image what kind of System Lord we could—or might have been, as Colonel O'Neill pointed out in our last session—be dealing with. But then again…" She turned her head to the side to look at Daniel. "I didn't have the opportunity to ask this during the last meeting, but are you _sure_ that this System Lord is using the persona of an Aztec god? I know that the names match up, but aren't the 1500s A.D. a little_ late_ in our history for a Goa'uld System Lord?"

"Not really," Daniel said, bouncing on his feet a little, "because when you say 1500s A.D., you're not referring to their actual date of _existence_—you're referring to their date of _conquest_. The Aztecs were around as a tribe for a while before that, and they received many of their gods from the Mayans before them and even some from the tribes that they conquered, although they were usually lesser gods. In their absorption of conquered gods, one source compared them to the Roman Empire." Daniel shrugged. "Supposedly, Mictlantecuhtli parallels the Mayan god of the Underworld, and the Mayans in addition to the Aztecs left pyramids. As the Goa'uld used the Egyptian pyramids to hide ships, it's equally possible that some Goa'uld used pyramids in the Americas for the same purpose. Simply because we haven't searched for evidence of the Goa'uld outside of Egypt and Ancient technology outside of Antarctica actually doesn't limit them to those areas. There might in fact be Goa'uld or Ancient technology or even a Stargate buried somewhere on the American continents. After all, we only found the Stargate in Antartica by accident," Daniel pointed out.

"That's true."

"However, back to your original question, the Aztec Empire was around for about one hundred years prior to the conquest by Cortez and his allies, but the tribes that made up the allied empire were around for longer. The term Aztec, however, was a name that derived from the alliance that formed the basis of their Empire, for they were really called the Nahua—"

"Wait, did you just say, 'Cortez and his _allies_'?" Lt. Colonel Reynolds interrupted.

"Of course," Daniel said, turning to him. "Do you honestly believe that a couple of hundred of Spanish soldiers, regardless that they brought horses, guns, armor, and smallpox, could wipe out an entire empire on their own? Especially given that the label 'empire' means that there are other peoples under the titled ruler? The Aztec region was based upon ritual sacrifice, which meant that most of their conquests were focused on acquiring sacrifices through the peoples that they conquered. It just so happened that the conquered who didn't like being used as the sacrifices joined forces with Cortez to topple the Empire, even if that tidbit is often left out." **[2]**

"Huh. And here I'd thought that they'd just had superpowers or something," joked Jack.

"Returning to the actual topic," interjected Major Carter. "So it's not a farfetched idea that this 'King of Mictlan' is the other System Lord?"

Daniel turned back to look at Carter and shrugged. "Well, I couldn't find any other mythological beings with the name 'King of Mictlan,'" he said. "Besides, there's a much higher likelihood that this is the one due to a small something… here…" He reached up and pointed to the image, resting his finger finally beneath the figure's neck. "Do you see this necklace?"

"That's a _necklace_?" 1st Lt. Bosco said. "It just looks like circles and lines to me."

"I thought that it was a collar," said Major Peterson.

Carter focused her gaze on the image, narrowing her eyes a little in concentration. "Yeah, but I couldn't tell that it was a necklace when I first looked. Why is it important?"

"The Aztec gods are mainly differentiated based on how they are colored and the clothing that they're wearing. According to the descriptions that I found, one of Mictlantecuhtli's symbols is a necklace of eyeballs—don't make that face, Jack. Skeletal imagery stood for health and fertility, among other things—"

"—but they're _eyeballs_—"

"—and the way the necklace is drawn here looks suspiciously like the symbol of our unknown System Lord, coincidentally the 'King of Mictlan,' which was one of this guy's titles," concluded Daniel.

Sam compared the two images in her head. If the necklace was turned to the side, and then overlaid… Her eyes widened. "You're right!"

Jack yawned, and then he drawled, "So…" as he leaned forward in his chair, resting his elbows on the armrests while linking his fingers together in front of him, "now that we've identified our unknown System Lord, where does that leave us?"

Daniel yawned, and then he rubbed his eyes tiredly. When his vision focused again, he crossed his arms and then eyed the image contemplatively. "I don't know," he said finally. "We haven't dealt with Aztec System Lords before."

"I have never heard of a System Lord by the name of Mictlantecuhtli," Teal'c said, speaking for the first time at the meeting. He inclined his head. "Perhaps the better question is whether this System Lord was originally the ally or enemy of Ba'al, Daniel Jackson? Or the determination of whether or not this System Lord is still a danger to us?"

Daniel sighed and took off his glasses, rubbing his eyes tiredly again before pinching the bridge of his nose. He inhaled deeply. Finally, he shook his head. "I don't know, Teal'c. I just don't know."

General Hammond, who had been quiet while Daniel explained, said, "It's all right, Dr. Jackson. I'm just glad that we have something to work with in the meantime. As soon as this meeting is over, I'll tell Walter to ask our allies whether they have any information on this new System Lord." He nodded at Daniel. "Thank you."

Daniel nodded tiredly and went back to sit down. By the time that he sat, the lights had been switched back on, and General Hammond was shutting down the projector.

When the projector screen disappeared completely, General Hammond said, "While I can't say whether this System Lord began as an enemy or ally of Ba'al, I can say that we have evidence from the team reviewing the tapes that they were certainly enemies when they invaded our base."

"What makes you say that, General Hammond?" Lt. Colonel Reynolds asked.

"The Goa'uld that shot Alfred was a soldier of Ba'al. Immediately after shooting Alfred, he was in turn shot by one of the soldier's from this new System Lord."

"Well, that's definitely something."

"There is a catch to this," General Hammond continued slowly.

"Uh-oh," Jack drawled slowly. "What happened, General?"

"The Jaffa that shot Alfred wasn't shot fatally, and he escaped back through the Stargate shortly thereafter. We don't know whether he reported back to Ba'al or not, or even what he would have been able to report. But the fact remains that one Jaffa soldier of Ba'al's army escaped."

Jack grimaced. "That's not good."

"No, it isn't," affirmed General Hammond with a frown. "But we can't do anything about it now."

Sam raised her hand. "Sir, have you heard anything from the lab?"

General Hammond shook his head. "Unfortunately, no. They're currently buried in work at the moment, but they assured me that they would have those lab results ready by tomorrow."

Sam nodded slowly. "All right, sir."

Colonel O'Neill leaned forward with a tired sigh. "Well, if the lab results aren't in, then let's resume with the first thing that you mentioned earlier, sir," he said. "How'd the President take the news about Alfred?"

General Hammond sighed and rested his forehead in his palm. "About as well as could be expected, Colonel O'Neill," he said. "The end result was that we are ordered to recover Alfred at all costs." He paused for a second before releasing a rare chuckle, and, with a disbelieving shake of the head, said, "But before reaching that point, I had to hold the phone away from my ear for about two minutes while he shouted about how much trouble Alfred was in when he returned to Earth, how _this_ was the reason why he and past presidents have never allowed him to come here before, how apparently Alfred is the largest trouble magnet this world has ever seen, how Alfred is apparently going to lose his hamburger rights 'for real' this time, and on and on." He moved his head out of his hand to gesture.

"_Hamburger rights?"_ Daniel echoed.

"Apparently, our national avatar has a love of burgers that equates the love of our people for them," returned General Hammond. "Apparently, the President gave him a special card that allows him to have the food billed to Washington if that's what he is eating."

"Well, that's convenient, I guess."

Jack raised a hand. "Pardon my asking, General, but isn't he being a little harsh? I mean, it's not like Alfred got shot and fell through the Stargate _on purpose_. And if he's being held by a Goa'uld System Lord, it's not like they'll be having a merry party or something. Especially not if it's Ba'al." _I know that all too well…_

General Hammond sighed. "I tried that approach myself, but while the President maintains that it would have taken an armed task force to keep Alfred out of the fight—and he did admit that, even then, that might not have worked—he feels that Alfred should have been more careful. He did say that most of his anger was his worry, though. He didn't have any true plans to kill Alfred or punish him severely after he has returned, but he'll probably keep the avatar close by for a while. The proverbial leash would speak for itself, and he knows that there's not much Alfred can give as rebuttal in that corner after what has happened, besides his apparently usual complaints about that sort of thing."

Lt. Colonel Reynolds held up a hand this time. "Excuse me, General Hammond? What did you mean when you said, 'national avatar'?"

"That will be explained after I have given SG-1 their new assignment, Colonel Reynolds," General Hammond replied. "I'm sorry that I have to ask you and your team to wait for explanations for a second time, Colonel, but due to the time constraints and the delicacy of our current predicament, please accept my apology over a second delay. But do know that, given the circumstances, the President has agreed to make an allowance and raise security clearances on a need-to-know basis. You and your team are about to be duly informed, but as it will be a lot to take in, you'll probably need extra time." General Hammond offered a rare chuckle as he shook his head.

Lt. Colonel Reynolds nodded, albeit with some weariness and confusion. "All right, General Hammond."

"Thank you, Colonel Reynolds." General Hammond returned his focus to both teams. "The President has issued orders that, given the fact that we have no idea where Alfred or SG-21 is, we are to put in a line to our allies and ask for aid. Walter is currently working on this, despite the busy signals that we've been receiving."

"Could this be related to the connection problems that we had with P9X-534?" Major Carter asked.

General Hammond shook his head. "It is possible, but it's less likely, Major. I asked Walter about it about I returned from the lab, but he claims that this is just them not responding, which has happened before. The previous diagnostics turned up negative for connection problems, even after I finally agreed to allow him to randomly make connections with uninhabited worlds. He is currently running some additional diagnostics on the Stargate, just in case, but there do not appear to be any problems."

There was a brief pause, and then Colonel O'Neill raised his hand. "Did you send the drone through the Stargate to P9X-534 like we suggested, General?"

General Hammond shook his head. "No," he said heavily.

"_No?_" Jack echoed. "Why not, sir?"

"Well, as it was just reminisced about, our connection problems started after connecting to that planet. I want Walter to finish the diagnostics before we attempt another connection. I know that our dialing computer is not as efficient as a DHD would be, but I don't want to mislabel connections on us."

"But General, Alfred and SG-21 are still—"

"Colonel O'Neill, I don't like sitting around and waiting while they are out still there any more than you do," General Hammond cut him off shortly. "But until we know for sure that there are no problems with that Stargate, I can't jeopardize this base again. We took casualties, today, and a lot more than I'm comfortable with. Thankfully, those of you in front of me are not, but many of our men are injured. I would like to hope that we're just as lucky as we were earlier today when you went through it when we reconnect that Stargate to P9X-534, but I can't take that chance until this base is prepared for a second attempt."

General Hammond took a deep breath, and then he said, "Colonel O'Neill, both you _and _Colonel Reynolds said that it looked like there had been a battle between two System Lords. I agree that it's possible that they moved elsewhere on the planet or have even possibly left the planet, but it's equally possible that, in the time since you all returned, they have moved_ back_ into the area where P9X-534's Stargate is located, especially if they're expecting us to return for Alfred and SG-21. If that is the case, I _cannot_ jeopardize this base until it's ready for a second battle, especially since the reports _you and Colonel Reynolds_ just submitted say that the likeliest outcome for the remaining members of SG-21 and Alfred was that they were captured. We don't even know by _whom_. What would you suggest—_knock_ on each System Lord's mothership's doors and _ask _if they have our men and our nation?"

He paused for a second. He took a deep breath, and then he said calmer, softer, "Colonel O'Neill, I'm sorry, but at the present, what is necessary to rescue Alfred and SG-21 is nothing short of an army large enough to face two System Lords, which we would not be able to convince Congress to allow. And even if we _could_, if they didn't face them at the same time, they would most likely have to be able to face one and then the other. We simply don't have the manpower for that right now, but the President is looking into other options for us if it is deemed necessary."

Colonel O'Neill leaned forward, gesturing frustratedly with his hands. "Well, then _what_ would you suggest that we_ can_ do in the meantime, General?"

"I'm getting there, Colonel." General Hammond turned to SG-1. "SG-1, your current assignment is to go to Alfred's house in Texas. The President is having a copy made of the key to Alfred's house. It will be flown over as soon as it is finished, which will be tomorrow morning at the latest."

"And just _what_ are we supposed to find at Alfred's _house_ that will be better than the kid himself?" asked O'Neill sarcastically.

"The President hopes that his Asgard friend Tony will be able to help you," Hammond replied, before adding, "well, if you can find him."

"_If_ we can find him?" Jack echoed incredulously.

The General sighed. "Supposedly, although Tony lives with Alfred on his property in Texas, the alien came and went as he pleased. He may be unfriendly to intruders. The President wanted to send guards with you all as a form of identification, but none of the current staff are familiar with Tony, and it would take too long to dig through their files to determine if any of the older staffs knew who and what Tony was, or if Tony would even remember them. The President himself only knows him by name, never having met Tony in person, either. Apparently, Tony prefers to stay by himself or with Alfred, so for the protection of his guards and his own privacy, only Alfred has had access to his Texas property."

"The President would allow him to stay someplace without guards?" Jack bit dubiously.

"Well, he came _here_ without guards," Daniel pointed out.

"Yeah, but he came to a _military installation_," Jack rebutted. "_We_ were the guards."

"_Supposed_ to be the—"

"_Daniel_—"

"Regardless," Sam interjected shortly. "General Hammond, what does the President believe will be accomplished? If this is only to help Tony find his way back, surely that can be done _after_ we've recovered Alfred and SG-21, which would be accomplished better if that drone was sent to the planet sooner rather than later?"

General Hammond shook his head. "As per Tony, the President believes that, since they spent so much time together, he may be of some aid in finding Alfred. As per the drone, that matter is closed."

"So, in other words, what the President _really_ means to say is that this is _actually_ a long-shot attempt to pretend that we're doing something in the meantime because, in all honesty, until we have more information, we can do nothing else?" clarified Jack darkly.

"Pretty much," General Hammond admitted begrudgingly.

"Swell," Jack bit out. Then he sighed tiredly, before grumbling, "I can't believe I'm saying this, but until that drone is sent out, I guess that it's _something_. When is the key arriving again?"

"Sometime tomorrow morning, Colonel," replied General Hammond tiredly. "You and SG-1 are to prepare to fly out to Texas tonight. You will leave as soon as the key arrives tomorrow morning."

"Let's just hope we don't get vaporized," muttered Jack. He sighed, rubbing his temples for a moment, and then turned to Lt. Colonel Reynolds. "Hey, Colonel Reynolds, you've been rather quiet. Decided not to ask about the Asgard living with the kid?"

Lt. Colonel Reynolds shook his head with a tired smile. "No. I merely decided to wait and include the question with my others, hoping that they would all be answered at once."

Jack smiled tiredly in return. "Heh, smart move. But guess what? You're about to get your answers now, and believe me—it sounds crazy, but it's all true."

"But I thought that was the nature of this program, Colonel O'Neill," Lt. Colonel Reynolds joked.

"Actually, you're right again." Jack chuckled, and then he stood up from the table. "Is SG-1 dismissed, General Hammond? I think that SG-3 is ready to learn the new secrets of the universe, and admittedly, it would be nice to sleep before our mission tomorrow." Even a few hours were precious, and it would still be more than SG-3 would be getting…

General Hammond nodded. "You're dismissed, SG-1."

* * *

><p><span>AN: SG-1 seems to get distracted when they're exhausted but not focused on a particular task...

Don't you remember when the internet used to open new windows instead of new tabs, and they would all be lined up at the bottom of the screen?

I can't remember if I read a list on the SG-1 Wikia of the languages that Jack knows, and, if there is one, whether or not Italian was listed. For this fic, Jack doesn't know Italian (or, at least, fluently enough to read _La Divina Commedia_). Jack's someone who pretends to know less than he really does, so it wouldn't surprise me if he could speak several languages while pretending to only know one.

**[1]:** Translations of Spanish phrases (that I couldn't italicize because the text was already italicized, so I was forced to make the text normal in the chapter to show the language difference):

_Ándale_: This is an (Mexican) Spanish exclamation. Its connotative meaning is similar to "come on," and it can be said playfully/jokingly. (It can also mean "hurry"/"hurry up" or something similar to "there we go," but that's not how it was being used.)

_Como digas_: The illiteral translation is "whatever you say," but it is still formal. Captain Rodriguez knows Daniel, and they're decent acquaintances, but he doesn't know him well enough to use the informal form _lo que digas_. Many thanks to _mh_ for the translation fix!

**[2]:** Cortez did indeed conquer the Aztec Empire with the assistance of conquered tribes of the Aztec Empire. The Aztecs' religion was based on ritual sacrifice that involved conquering people for their necessary sacrifices. Thanks to research, I could go more into this, but then this A/N would grow to an even more horrendous length than it already is.

Thanks for reading, and please leave a review and share your thoughts! I love hearing from you!


	9. Part the Ninth

A/N: Do y'all remember back in Chapter Two/_Part the Second_ when I said that this story would probably have 5-10 chapters maximum? You _don't_? Good, because that plan has quite obviously been shot. (And it's been shot many times with an M-5, not an MP5. :P) I am now solidifying the prediction of Chapter Five's Fun Fact: we are _officially_ moving beyond the 5-10 chapter range, because this story is quite obviously_ not_ ending next chapter.

It is Friday, October 31. Happy Halloween! (And look, it's still October, which means that I succeeded in updating once this month!)

Disclaimer: I do not own _Hetalia Axis Powers_ or _Stargate SG-1_. They belong to their respective owners. I am making no money off of this fanfiction. It is for entertainment purposes only.

* * *

><p><span>Into the Wild Blue Yonder—Part the Ninth<span>

_Earth_

_Stargate Command_

SG-3 stepped out of the meeting room. Lt. Colonel Reynolds ran his hand through his almost non-existent hair. _I just can't believe what I just heard._

He looked at his team. They appeared just as haggard as he felt, as if someone had tied their feet to the back of a truck and then dragged them for a mile. Then again, on top of their newest knowledge and having defended their base and participated in a failed rescue mission, none of them had slept in almost 38 hours. (He would _never_ hold a field drill prior to an enemy attack again… Not that he would ever be able to read the future in order to avoid double-booking his team…)

Reynolds opened his mouth and then wearily closed it. As much as he wanted to, they were forbidden from speaking about the matter publicly. Given that the order came from the President himself, there wasn't much he could do to contradict it. But they could speak privately in his office. (He had made sure to double check that with General Hammond.)

But… he just couldn't believe it.

_The door shut with a soft click as SG-1 exited the room to sleep before they flew out to Texas the next morning (well, later that morning, really…). SG-3 waited in their seats with a mixture of anticipation and fatigue. What could General Hammond possibly need to tell them that it was secret enough to send the guards away and that they would need to have their clearances raised by the President?_

_General Hammond sat back down with a sigh. Lt. Colonel Reynolds noted with some pity that the longest night would probably belong to General Hammond._

_General Hammond took a deep breath, and then he said, "I need to tell y'all something that y'all might not believe. It's about that kid who fell through the Stargate."_

"_Was he some sort of alien ambassador, sir?" Bosco asked._

_General Hammond shook his head. "No, but you're on the right track with ambassador," he said. "That boy is most assuredly American. He considers our President his 'boss,' but he has considered the President to be his 'boss' for a very long time."_

_1st Lt. Johnson raised an eyebrow. "He didn't look that old, sir. How long has he been working for the President, then? And why are you calling the President 'his boss,' sir?"_

"_That's because the President _is_ his boss. That kid…" General Hammond took a deep breath, and then he said, "That kid is our national avatar. He is the personification of our country."_

_There was a beat of silence, and then Lt. Colonel Reynolds said, "You mean a representative, sir, an ambassador of an international level. At his age, that is quite impressive."_

"_Or he has impressive contacts in Washington," joked Bosco._

_General Hammond held up his hand. "No jokes, Lt. Bosco. I can't handle any more. SG-1 just used up the last of my patience for them."_

"_Sorry, sir."_

_General Hammond nodded and then turned back to SG-3's commander. "No, Colonel Reynolds, I meant exactly what I said. That boy is our national avatar, the personification of our nation. He is the physical entity of our country, the United States of America."_

_Peterson's eyes widened, and his voice rose slightly when he spoke. "That's not possible, sir."_

"_And why not, Major Peterson?"_

_Major Peterson shrugged his shoulders. "Well, nothing like this has been reported before, sir, and—"_

"—_And if there was something of this nature that was this important, would it have been broadcasted?"_

_Peterson shook his head and looked down. "No, sir."_

"_No, Major Peterson. It wouldn't have." General Hammond looked at each of SG-3 seriously in turn. "Now, Alfred's presence has been kept an airtight secret by all of the Presidents that he has served back to the Founding Fathers, and probably from even before then, as Alfred admitted to have been around since before the Revolutionary War to the time period of the first colonies along the East Coast. For the purpose of his rescue, the President has issued special permission to reveal the status of Alfred to those involved, but under no condition is that status to be revealed by any in the know. We don't want word of his existence moving behind those that _absolutely need to know_. God forbid the NID or another nation hears about what has happened. It would mean a lot of trouble that we would rather avoid, and who knows _what_ can happen to a nation that is missing its national avatar."_

_1st Lt. Bosco raised a hand. "Sir, you mentioned other nations finding out. Well," he said slowly, "do _other _nations have personifications like Alfred?"_

_General Hammond nodded. "They do. Every established nation has their own national personification. And you can rest assured that they keep theirs just as hidden and protected as we kept ours." _

_General Hammond sighed. "I'm sorry that I had to dump this on you right now, but as you are a part of the team helping to find and rescue Alfred, this is information that you need to know."_

"_Is there anything else that we should know about Alfred specifically? Or about the characteristics and abilities of personified nations in general?" Lt. Colonel Reynolds asked._

"_The President is preparing a file that he will send over tomorrow morning along with the key to Alfred's house that he basically called a 'National Personification FAQ Sheet,'" General Hammond quoted. "Other than that, well, you saw Alfred's super strength for yourself today. They live as long as their nation stands, and they exhibit the summation—the stereotypes—of their people on a national level."_

The meeting ended shortly thereafter, with General Hammond dismissing them to rest. It was something that they all desperately needed, and General Hammond hinted that he wouldn't be up that much longer, either.

But…

That kid that fell through the Stargate was the personification of the United States of America. There was actually a person that was an avatar of their nation.

That kid was his country.

_His country._

He had watched _his country_ be shot and fall through the Stargate, and he hadn't been able to rescue him.

_His country_ was out there, captured by the Goa'uld, and _he couldn't do anything_.

Lt. Colonel Reynolds exhaled deeply. Now he understood why O'Neill was so upset during the debriefing meeting.

"Colonel Reynolds, sir?"

Lt. Colonel Reynolds looked slowly to the side. "Yes, Bosco?"

"Are we allowed to speak of what we just heard together, sir?"

"Yes," he answered. "We can. I asked General Hammond about it before he left the Debriefing Room, but we'll have to speak privately in my office."

"May we speak privately about it in your office, then, sir?"

Lt. Colonel Reynolds thought it over, but then he shook his head lightly. "Yes, but not tonight," he answered. "We'll discuss this in my office tomorrow at 1400, after we have had a chance to rest." When Bosco looked at him questioningly, he continued, "I know that it's a lot to take in, but let's give it a chance to sit before we talk about it. There's nothing that we can do in the meantime, anyway, and we should take every opportunity to rest that we can until it's time to move." Who knew how long they might move without rest again when the rest period was over.

1st Lt. Bosco and the rest of SG-3 nodded.

"Are there any other questions, then?" Lt. Colonel Reynolds asked.

"No, sir," Bosco said. Johnson and Peterson responded likewise.

Peterson yawned.

Lt. Colonel Reynolds chuckled softly. He glanced at his watch. It was almost 0230—definitely time to sleep. "SG-3 is dismissed until tomorrow at 1400. Go to sleep. You all need it."

* * *

><p>Jack knew that he should sleep. He'd arrived back in his room a little after 0120 and it was now almost 0200. Even his body knew; he was exhausted. And who knew when the wake-up call would come?<p>

But he couldn't sleep. His mind wouldn't allow it.

His country was out there, somewhere, captured by a Goa'uld System Lord. Heaven help America if it was Ba'al, not that the possibility of him being held by an unknown System Lord made the situation better.

And not being able to send that drone frustrated him. That drone was the one way to ensure that either hitting up P9X-534 or avoiding it was the right move, wasn't it? Wasn't General Hammond wrong?

No, General Hammond wasn't.

As much it pained Colonel O'Neill to admit it.

O'Neill knew why General Hammond had made the decision to not send the drone, and he knew _why _that that was the right command decision. He knew that the SGC had taken casualties, and that without assurance of a functioning Stargate, attempting another connection was very reckless.

That didn't mean that he had to agree with the general's decision.

It wasn't just a kid named Alfred out there.

His nation was out there. _America_ was out there, captured by a Goa'uld System Lord, along with the team that had attempted to rescue him when they had needed rescuing themselves.

His nation—_the nation that he had sworn his oath to_—was a captive of the enemy.

And there was _nothing_ that he could do about it.

Jack buried his head in his pillow to avoid looking at the clock, but he didn't close his eyes. If he closed his eyes, he might see the image of Alfred falling through the Stargate again, shot twice, tumbling backward in slow-motion, and he would feel the despair that comes of watching your country fall.

O'Neill had failed to fulfill his oath that day.

And he didn't know what he could do to redeem himself.

For a brief moment, Jack considered reading until he had something else in his mind long enough so that he could sleep, or at least reading something long enough to deter the guilt. But when he turned to his nightstand, there it was—the book. _That book_ was still sitting on his nightstand. It should have been innocuous. It was just a book. _Just_ a book. He had only agreed to borrow it and read it when its owner overheard on Monday that he hadn't read it after his conversation with Daniel over the book (or more like his lack of having read it or another of its kind, to which Jack had almost been fearful, for_ there were others_) and had thought the idea sacrilege. Jack had tried to refuse—really, they didn't even know each other that well, how he could borrow one of his books randomly?—but he had insisted. If nothing else, his arm was twisted in that it would get Daniel to stop asking him periodically if he'd read any of the 'great books' of Classical Literature. (As if Jack had enough free time for that. Daniel shouldn't have had had time for that.) Jack had already denied having read anything Homer, and Daniel was threatening with Milton next if Jack didn't start reading _something_. Not that Jack ever had time to simply sit and read, except when he was in Minnesota. And when he was home, he was drinking a beer and fishing in his pond. (And there were fish in his pond.)

The book sitting on his night stand should have been like any book. But it wasn't. This was Italy's national epic, _La Divina Commedia_, more commonly known in English as _The Divine Comedy._

Jack really wished that the book was actually funny.

He had no clue why it was called a comedy at all, although, admittedly, he had only read through _Inferno_ so far. He was hesitant to start _Purgatorio_ and _Paradiso_. He'd heard that they were boring, or at least, less interesting than _Inferno_.

Dante was in the bottommost pit of Hell. _Why was it called a comedy? _

Jack wasn't going to get an answer any time soon.

It wouldn't be answered until he asked Lt. Colonel de Luca. That wouldn't be until they rescued SG-21.

He was afraid to consider how long it might be before he could return the book to its owner.

For a brief moment, he wondered which pit of Hell he'd wind up in if he was not able to rescue SG-21 and his nation. Was it worth it opening up _Inferno_ to remind himself which circle of hell was reserved for which sinners?

He really should be out there looking for them, not laying there in bed.

Yet there was no way for him to get out there. What could he do to get out there and search? Short of attempting to connect a possibly faulty Stargate (and getting court martialed before he had made it through), there was nothing.

He reached for the book.

When Jack touched it, a wave of fatigue washed over him. His own words echoed in his ear: _A soldier can't fight without sleep._

"Live today, fight tomorrow, huh, Dante?" he murmured. "Get out of Hell tomorrow." Suddenly, he yawned. He lay back down. He didn't look at the clock, but this time, he felt that he could sleep.

_We'll rescue you, Alfred, and we're coming, SG-21. Hold on until then, okay? You'll make it through Hell. There's a Virgil somewhere…_

* * *

><p>It was dark. He couldn't move.<p>

It was lighter now. Yet still dark.

Dark.

And quiet.

Like a dark room. No windows. No door.

Empty.

Alfred grasped for a doorknob.

No doorknob.

Lighter.

Spots on his gloves… Red…?

The fuzzy light slipped away.

The darkness returned.

* * *

><p><em>Somewhere in the galaxy...<em>

_Ba'al's Mothership_

Ba'al left the antechamber of his mothership several hours later to return to the observation room. Their course was still set for his new outpost, and so far, there were no problems, no enemy activity. It made the corner of his lip quirk into a small smirk.

The lack of external activity left him to pursue his own interests, like continuing the investigations of the strange Tauri child that was not what he appeared to be.

Ba'al stepped up beside the room, opening a side panel and pressing the small, triangular button. The door slid open quickly and closed after he had entered. Upon reaching the table where the young man lay, however, Ba'al frowned.

Several hours indeed had passed, but to Ba'al's annoyance, they had not been hours of efficient recuperation.

The boy was paler, almost pasty. He was still breathing shallowly, and judging by his flushed and sweating appearance, his fever had not broken. While there was evidence that the tissues had begun rebuilding themselves around the wounds (and Ba'al could almost swear that the damaged section of the boy's spinal column was reconstructing itself), there was evidence of irritation. If that irritation continued, Ba'al may have to recheck the state of quarantine in the room for the presence of irritants specific to the Tauri race that he may have neglected to input into the program.

Turning to the wall panel, Ba'al opened up the computer panel with a tap on the wall. He activated the diagnostic program. The table that the boy was laying on began to _whirr_ quietly. A moment later, the same lights from before lit up: the boy was stable.

Yes, the boy was alive. Ba'al could see that for himself.

Exhaling deeply, Ba'al pressed three more small buttons on the keypad of the wall panel. The data of the diagnostic appeared as script on the screen.

Ah. That was the problem.

According to the projected healing rate from the first diagnostic, there should have been 0.20 centimeter's worth of healing. According to the second diagnostic, there was only 0.16 centimeters.

That was 80% efficiency.

Ba'al knitted his eyebrows together. Would this decline continue? Ba'al returned to the opposite wall, punching in the new findings and withdrawing the old ones in a separate probability program. The results appeared.

He frowned in annoyance.

Pushing several more buttons on the panel, Ba'al resubmitted the data and asked for the computer to reevaluate it. Perhaps he had missed something.

He hadn't.

Ba'al exhaled heavily. He was displeased.

He closed the panel with a definitive push on the panel. According to the current diagnostic trends, the boy only appeared to be healing. It was the final fight of his body, for he was declining. He would die within days. At the current projection, the child had maybe a week, two at the most.

Ba'al huffed. He could always resuscitate the child using the sarcophagus, but he preferred that to be his method of last resort. This child was such a unique specimen that he didn't want to risk tampering with any possible data. Ba'al swept his cloak behind him definitively. There had to be a way to prolong the child's life. Perhaps if checked the raw data of the child's condition, he would find something he missed.

He moved to a different panel and checked the individual diagnostics.

Hm. The boy was taking in less oxygen. Given the decreased blood in his system from his injuries, that shouldn't have been problematic, but his heart and lungs had been affected also by shock. His initial rate of regeneration had also slowed. It had not slowed by much, admittedly, but it was enough to make a difference. Apparently, the first projection had been at 0.23 centimeters.

But this was still a decidedly marked decline.

Perhaps his body was finally overcome by the shock and his injuries?

Then again, it was equally possible that a cause such as the lack of nutrients had affected the regeneration processes. A body underwent processes like any other machine; it could not repair if there no materials with which to repair.

Besides, the only "immortal" beings that Ba'al knew of with physical forms had mortal bodies. It was probable that this child was the same. For now, he would operate under those parameters. The computer claimed that the Tauri-child-who-was-not-a-Tauri's body had the genetic and physical structure of a member of the Tauri, even if his aging process and regenerative abilities denied that, so he would structure the nutrient scale according to that race.

Ba'al searched the side of the observation table until he found the panel near the end of the table. Pushing two buttons, a green light blinked for a moment, and then a light mist descended from the ceiling upon the child. The mist was imbued with vitamins and minerals, and it was easily absorbed and processed through the skin. It had proven most effective for prisoners with a similar physiology to the Tauri whom he preferred alive but had either refused to eat or could not eat for being unconscious.

Ba'al hoped that the child's state improved before he reached the outpost. Interrogations only worked if the prisoner was awake.

Prisoners…

Ba'al swept his cloak behind him as he exited the room. If he decided that he was bored with waiting for improvements in the boy's health, he did have other prisoners that he could interrogate, at least in between checking up on his strange specimen…

* * *

><p><em>Enemies. All over the base. All over the room.<em>

_Defend his land. Defend his people._

_He jumped and landed on a hard surface besides a large metal ring. The ring was lit with light, and the enemies came through it. He gripped his fingers tightly and punched. The resounding crack barely carried over the din. The armored man sailed backward off of the platform._

_He pulled back his fist, pivoted—_

_Pain. Burning in his stomach. Red on the ground, on his gloves was that really his blood—_

_Pain. His chest—_

_More red was that really his blood did that really just come from his chest and his stomach and did he just cough that into his gloves—_

_Get down get out get out—_

_His gloves were red—_

_Red red red everywhere—_

_He stumbled backwards, fell into the light—_

_Weightless—light—darkness—light—darkness—where—_

Matthew's eyes shot open. He lay on his bed, sweating and gasping, clutching his sheets with trembling fingers. He rubbed his watery eyes with a shaking hand before pushing his sweaty bangs away from his face.

_Was that just a dream?_

Matthew took a long, shuddering breath. It had been horrifying. His people had been threatened. He had been fighting, and then he had been injured. Then that strange ring of light, those final images of light and darkness and not knowing where he was… It was so like death, but it wasn't…

_I have no idea what that was about…_

Kumakucha keened and curled up closer to his side. Matthew jolted slightly, then relaxed. He had forgotten that the polar bear cub was there. He ran his fingers through the cub's soft fur, relaxing at the familiar warmth and courseness.

Matthew lay back down, taking deep breaths. The chill slowly dissipated between the warmth generated by his comforter and the polar bear cub. He pushed his bangs out of his face again and exhaled slowly.

It was just a nightmare. A terrible dream, but a dream nonetheless.

Look, his hands were clean. No bloodied gloves…

Matthew froze.

He didn't wear gloves.

He _never_ wore gloves.

Matthew's eyes widened. _Alfred!_

* * *

><p><span>AN: And there is Chapter Nine!

I'm sorry that it took so long to post this chapter. (Some of the sections were being difficult and) I had some essays and exams, but they're done now. I have a brief moment before the next set begins. The past few weeks have been also something of a ride. A long and difficult one, but things are better. At some points in your life, all you can do is read the atmosphere and respond accordingly.

Sorry. You're here for Chapter Nine, but that is now over. So, final point: if you are ever wondering about the status of the next chapter (for this story or others that are currently being worked on), then please feel free to check out my profile. I post the status updates of my current projects on a semi-regular basis.


	10. Part the Tenth

A/N: Notes are at the end.

Disclaimer: I do not own _Hetalia Axis Powers_ or _Stargate SG-1_. They belong to their respective owners. I am making no money off of this fanfiction. It is for entertainment purposes only.

* * *

><p><span>Into the Wild Blue Yonder—Part the Tenth<span>

_Ba'al's Mothership_

_Somewhere in the galaxy…_

Captain Rodriguez gripped his knees to his chest and hid his face.

His tears were futile to hide. He could never hide the redness of his face or puffiness of his eyes. His whole family was that way.

He shoved his hat further down his head.

A long time ago, he had thought that he could get used to death. Would get used to it. Would force himself to, if necessary. If you fought, death never lagged far behind, watching, waiting… You should expect its presence, its hovering shadow…

But one never got used to it.

It was not something that you were supposed to get used to.

It pounced when you least expected it, a monster, a tyrant. It stole those around you, kidnapped them, drew no quarter, while laughing, smiling, asking why_ you_ were left behind.

He had not been raised to fear death. Death was nothing to be afraid of. It was equally a part of life, and one celebrated death for the life that one had lived and rejoiced that they now lived a better life than the one that they left.

But how do you celebrate the life that was lived when the death that stole the life was horrific?

When you'd rather mourn the lost?

_Nathan…_

The explosion, the shots from the death glider, the staff blasts into the smoke. One went over his shoulder. He ducked. A scream. He looked around. De Luca and Witkowski were behind him, firing away. That left—_no no no no_. The smoke started to clear. There was a form on the ground. He ran. "Nathan—!"

There was a large burn on his side, and a red puddle on the ground. Nathan fought to rise, his muscles trembling, but he couldn't lift himself up. He coughed, red splotches spraying the ground, red dripping from his chin. Eduardo reached into his bag. _Bandages, bandages—!_

Nathan coughed again, spraying flecks of redness, and shook his head. Eduardo stopped moving, his hands trembling too much to grasp the medical equipment. He whipped his head back and forth.

He dropped back down, his head angled toward Eduardo. Red dripped from his chin.

"Don't you—!"

With trembling fingers, Nathan inched his gun away from himself and toward Eduardo. Eduardo could see that there was still the majority of a magazine in the M-5. _Take it._

"You can't—!"

His eyes were too bright and blurry and Nathan's eyes were too cloudy. He struggled for a breath.

"_I swear that I'll burn your Milton and dump all of its ashes on your tombstone!"_

The corner of Nathan's stained lip quirked, and he choked, "If we must die, O let us… nobly die."

His head dropped down, his eyes half-closed.

Just like that.

Still reciting poetry.

Stupid English major made his final words poetry.

Stupid English major who didn't depart reciting Milton, as he had promised.

_Pendejo._

_Pendejo pendejo pend—_

"_I'm the English major, not you. Shouldn't this be the other way around?"_

"_Ay, just read it! I read your Milton, now read McKay. Besides, I'm only giving you _one_. Churchill read it to inspire in World War II, and it was read in Congress for the same—"_

"_I'm going to make you read Herbert. Or Eliot. …You History major."_

"_I'm going to make you read _El Cid_ and _Don Quixote_. In the old Spanish. …You English major."_

A strange, chaotic calm that Eduardo had not expected had then descended over him, staring at Nathan's prone form. He wanted to fire his gun at anything and everything. He wanted to lean against a tree and cry. He wanted to shout at Nathan to get up and start reciting his damn Milton. Or he'd start reciting it first, and he'd purposely accent it completely wrong. Or read with a Spanish accent. An old Castillian Spanish accent.

Nathan never stirred.

Eduardo knelt there stunned, Nathan's gun still touching the edges of their fingertips.

_How did death steal its victims so quickly?_

No, nothing was wrong with Nathan. Nathan was injured, Nathan was unconscious, Nathan needed medical aid because he was refusing to blink.

He quickly shouldered his gun, Nathan's gun, and then dragged Nathan to the nearest clearing. The Death Glider returned for another round, flying close to the trees that lined their space. Staff blasts singed the edges of the trees. Jaffa soldiers appeared at the outer ring. They shot at him.

Eduardo fired. And fired. And fired.

They all fell.

More appeared.

He radioed in to Witkowski and de Luca, who retreated to his space when he said that Nathan was injured. They fought off the next wave.

During a lull, Lt. Colonel de Luca saw Nathan. He closed Nathan's eyes.

Rodriguez wanted to shout—_why had he closed his eyes_ why—when they got a radio call in to help someone who'd fallen through the Stargate. He joked about singing an elegy; he'd made that joke because he could believe that that was impossible.

But the longer that Nathan remained silent, the longer that Eduardo was afraid to stop keeping watch on de Luca and Witkowski.

De Luca and Witkowski brought back the strange teen. Witkowski was injured, but Witkowski was moving. He helped Witkowski, and he had tried to help the team, until they were ambushed.

Why had he been unable to bandage Nathan?

He was so still so motionless his light skin was lightening—

No, that couldn't be it—

He was—_no_—

Now, he was still.

Nathan was gone. And Eduardo had been forced to leave him behind.

Eduardo'd tried to fight, to stay by Nathan after de Luca had surrendered (_how could he surrender as long as they had bullets they could fight yes he was terrified but you were always terrified and you fought anyway_). The Jaffa had just stunned him. Stunned him. And he'd woken up there.

There, a shell, sitting with Witkowski and de Luca in a cell.

There, with the shell of his best friend far behind…

He pulled his hat down. He saw Hartwood's clouding eyes, heard his last words again,

"_If we must die, let us nobly die…"_

Nathan had read that one poem after all…

His shoulders trembled, and he buried his face in his knees again. For a moment, he thought that he heard the crinkling pages of a book, an inhale, and then:

"_For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime, Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer. Who would not sing for Lycidas?"_

He glanced through the gap between his arms and his hat. There was no one there.

"_Lycidas is dead,"_ he breathed. _"Who would not sing for Lycidas? He knew Himself to sing and build the lofty rhyme."_

The tears fell.

* * *

><p><em>Earth<em>

_Stargate Command_

It was dark and early and Jack was way too tired to be receiving a key to a far-away property.

Yet there he was. Or rather, there SG-1 was. He wasn't suffering all by his lonesome.

Jack's hand had fumbled around his bedside table to find the phone when it rang at 0445. When he had the misfortune to find it, General Hammond had promptly informed him that the White House official was flying out on a private jet to the base, was arriving in less than an hour, and that he had the key and some important information. Jack considered joking 'good morning' to the general, but by the time the snarky idea came to Jack, the general had already hung up the phone. When Jack put it back on the receiver, he realized that he hadn't had the energy for it anyway. A quick shower, an overnight bag and some coffee later, Jack stood with SG-1 and a haggard General Hammond in the debriefing room. Judging by the bags under his eyes, he was certain that the general hadn't gotten any sleep at all.

Looking around at SG-1, though, and remembering how he had looked in the mirror, he wasn't certain that they looked much better.

The White House official arrived in the stereotypical black suit and sunglasses, but Jack thought his serious countenance was appropriate, given the fact that it was 0530 and he had only gotten about two hours of sleep. Maybe SG-3 would get more sleep after all. Or maybe Jack would be able to sleep on the plane to make up some of the difference.

No, even if he slept on the plane, he still only had a finite time to sleep, and unless they were needed for something, SG-3 could sleep in as late as they wanted. SG-3 would win the day in sleep. He would make sure to remind them of this the next time those Marines tried to call them members of the Chair Force.

Jack blinked several times to regain his focus on the nameless White House official, suddenly happier that he was so serious at 0530 in the morning. If the guy had tried to smile, Jack might have punched him.

In addition to the key to Alfred's property in Texas, the guy had two copies of folders, one of which he passed to SG-1 and the other to General Hammond. Supposedly, the President had dubbed it a "National Personification FAQ sheet," whatever that meant. He flipped it open. Oh, it was an information dossier on Alfred and general information on personified nations—well, the information that the President had deemed permanent for them. Obviously they couldn't be told everything. No, their security clearances still weren't _high enough_ for it. (Well, excuse them for only being a part of the freaking top-secret Stargate Program.) He flipped the folder shut and put on his best, "I'm paying attention even if I'm really not" face.

Jack knew that he was in a bad mood, but he felt that it was slightly justified. He had fought off a Goa'uld invasion, the Stargate was malfunctioning, he had only received two hours of sleep, his country was currently being held captive by a Goa'uld System Lord, and there was nothing that he could do about any of it but go to the kid's property in the middle of nowhere and hope for the best.

He didn't like hoping for the best. He preferred action. He preferably preferred action with a concrete plan.

This was something to do. It wasn't a concrete plan. There was no guarantee that they would even _find_ Tony, let alone if Tony would be willing to trust them enough to help them.

_Maybe some sleep on the airplane _will_ be good_, he acknowledged as he stepped outside of the mountain, walking toward the air field. They would be flown from Cheyenne Mountain to Lackland Air Force base in San Antonio. Lucky for them that there was an Air Force base in Texas that was relatively nearby Alfred's property. They would then receive (or find, Jack wasn't sure which, since he had zoned out at that point) a rental car and drive out the remaining few hours to Alfred's property. Or however long it would take to find said property. He wasn't entirely sure that he trusted their directions.

The chilly Colorado mountain air did wonders to perk him up (as did the sight of snow on some of the distant Rocky Mountain peaks), but he had a feeling that that sight would disappear soon. He'd heard many things about Texas, but chilly with a chance of snow-covered mountains during the summer (or during the year, actually) was _not_ one of them.

* * *

><p><em>Ottawa, Canada<em>

"—_ve reached my answering machine. I'm—"_

Matthew snapped the flip phone shut. He took a deep, calming breath and, after staring at the time for a moment, slipped the Sanyo 5300 back into his pocket.

It was 1:07 PM.

It was the eighth time that he had attempted to call Alfred. It was the eighth time that he had received the answering machine.

It had been roughly ten hours since his dream and roughly five hours since the first call. Given the time difference between Ontario and Texas (where Alfred was supposed to be for meetings), Matthew's initial call at 7:00 AM was not so early. (At least, it wasn't early while Alfred was in a working mindset. If he wasn't, then 7:00 AM was an ungodly hour.) It had taken a lot from Matthew to hold off calling until it was 8:00 AM on his end to allow Alfred that sleep until 7:00 AM—_if_ he was sleeping in—but…

It had been five hours. It was after 1:00 PM outside of the Prime Minister's office in Ottawa, and it was after noon in Texas. That was five hours. Alfred never went so long without calling back. Even if he was stuck in meetings in Washington, D.C. with his phone off, he would usually find the calls and call back when he got a break, or he would sneak a text out if he was still in the meetings (if he had his phone on, but then again, he _usually_ did), by the time that Matthew called the third time. The longest period without a response from Alfred that Matthew had experienced had been three hours, maybe four.

Alfred had never _not_ responded.

Even if it was a text of "Sry Matt rly busy call u bk in 4 hrs." (That had happened once, but Alfred did call back… after four hours, eight minutes and 23 seconds. Matthew had timed it just to heckle Alfred. And he had allowed the late call back just because he specified in the text that it really was just a social call.)

The image of falling into a pool of light and darkness sent a shiver went down Matthew's spine again. His fingers clenched his slacks. He had just called Alfred. He had been calling by hour increments, but that time frame had decreased to half an hour. For now, he wouldn't call again for at least 15 minutes. In case Alfred really was in meetings, he would give his twin that long. Matthew hadn't heard of anything that was pressing in his twin's country that could keep him this busy, though, and it wasn't like Alfred to not call back…

Matthew normally had a sense about these things; Alfred had one for him. It was made them twins.

Today, though, he couldn't sense anything.

That was probably the scariest part of all.

_Alfred, where are you? Please…_

* * *

><p><em>Texas, United States<em>

_Somewhere outside of the San Antonio city limits_

Texas was hot.

It wasn't just large. Sure, people liked to say, "Everything's bigger in Texas"—and that statement was true. Most people were friendly (well, they were generally friendlier in the southern half of the United States than in the northern half) and polite, especially since there had been no less than three people in half an hour that, when Carter was in the front of the group, had held the door open for her (and Jack could tell that it was in a completely non-flirtatious way). And he had seen a lot of trucks. He had probably seen more trucks than he would ever see again in his life. The state was gigantic and the people were (fairly) tall…

But the heat.

Oh, the heat. Compared to Colorado and his lovely Minnesota, where he got several feet of snow most of the winter, Texas was nothing short of _arid_.

It was pretty, in a dry-and-arid-Southern-state sort of way. But it was still not full of beautiful lush greenery like the North or the East Coast. Or Minnesota. While Jack had to admit that the towering magnolia trees of San Antonio were lovely, that the oaks were even majestic in Texas, and the mesquite trees were interesting to look at (what was up with the dangling seed pods?), it was not his idea of beautiful scenery (minus the magnolia trees).

If the grass was yellow and brown and the dirt looked dead and he could swear that there were actually real-life cacti along the side of the road, how could he call it _pretty_?

He reassured himself that the places to fish must be just beyond his sight.

And that heat.

Oh, that heat.

It burned him. Coupled with the dust, he wondered how the natives stood it. But then again, he'd also heard that it was hotter and humidor the further south one went, and that San Antonio had occasionally gotten a little bit of snow, so maybe he wasn't getting that bad of a deal.

But still. That heat. And there wasn't a desert nearby!

No, there was no desert. Just emptiness as far as he could see once they passed out of the San Antonio city limits and the sparser, smaller towns beyond its outskirts. They just kept driving along the highway, and there was nothing but brush and dry grass and dead grass and dead dirt and nothing nothing _nothing_—

It was almost driving Jack insane. Maybe it would have driven him insane if he wasn't the one driving, and thereby the one responsible for getting everyone to Alfred's property.

Wherever this mysteriously mystical, fantastically fabled, supposedly existing property _was_.

Had he mentioned before the wide swathes of empty land in this state that stretched from one horizon to the other? He _hadn't_?

Well, now he had.

He had no idea where they were and where they were going. (And if the GPS _dared_ to tell them again that they were lost, he was tossing it out the window.)

"I can't believe that this kid is allowed to live in the middle of nowhere like this," Jack complained about two hours in. The stillness of the landscape _(oh, look, a vulture!)_ was starting to get to him. "How much more hidden could it _be_?"

"I have no idea," answered Daniel unnecessarily from the backseat. Jack glanced back to see if he was looking out of the window, but he had his nose in a book. It appeared to be the same one on _nahuatl_ that he had attempted to read on the plane before falling asleep.

"Perhaps his position allows him certain allowances," answered Teal'c from shotgun. Jack wasn't certain whether he should be pleased or concerned that Teal'c had taken control of the GPS.

"But this would allow for security as well, sir," inputted Carter from the backseat, next to Daniel and behind O'Neill. She pulled out the map of Central and Western Texas that had their directions and unfolded it carefully. "It's definitely not an easy place to find."

"Tell me about it," griped O'Neill. "I'm the one who's driving."

Carter sighed, lowering the map onto her lap. "I'm just still not sure what they're hoping that we'll find," she said. "Sure, they got us here quickly enough—that's a nice perk for being able to fly between bases—but did they seriously not have _any_ recent files on Tony? What if there's some kind of passcode to identify ourselves? I would rather not get zapped before having the chance to speak to him. And what do we do if he's _not_ there?"

For the first time that O'Neill could recall, Daniel lowered his book. Maybe they had finally distracted him enough. "Supposedly, all we have to do is unlock the front gate and go in, and that will speak for itself. Tony is supposed to be somewhere on the property," Daniel reminded. "Besides, he's an alien with a broken ship. _Where_ could he have gone?"

"For once, I think that you're the voice of reason, Daniel," O'Neill joked.

"Thanks, Jack." Daniel rolled his eyes and returned to his book.

Jack sighed, returning his eyes to the road, not that there was really anything that he needed to watch out for. The last car that he had seen was almost an hour ago. The last sign of life had been the vulture a few minutes ago, and then, excluding the sparse plant life, nothing after the people within the last car.

They should be out somewhere through the Stargate looking for the kid, not going to the kid's house a flight and a long drive away from the Stargate for the hope of "something." But then again, they had no other leads or ideas at the moment but Tony, and as Daniel pointed out, despite everyone's concerns, there was no reason for Tony _not_ to be there, so…

He sighed again. His eyebrows rose just as Daniel suddenly lowered his book again and pushed his glasses up his nose. "I think I see something."

Sure enough, the ever-present wire fence that lined the road bled into a seven-foot wire fence with intermittent cacti and more mesquite and oak trees. Jack would have wondered about the security of a wire fence, but then he reminded himself about the alien in the kid's backyard. And the cacti looked very, very spiny.

Jack grinned despite himself. "I think we're here, kids."

O'Neill turned the wheel gently onto a dirt pathway, following the fenced path until they reached a tall, metal gate hidden from sight while on the main road. Metal initials graced the top of the fence, and if Jack squinted right, they almost appeared to be _AFJ_. He craned his head a little to try and see into the property, but for the first time, Jack realized that the mesquite and oak trees growing along the property fence, in addition to the cacti, while not right next to each other, were enough to keep people from looking in.

Huh. Maybe the kid didn't _need_ a solid wall after all.

"Well, here goes nothing," O'Neill murmured, turning off the rental car with a turn of his hand. He put the keys in his pocket and opened the door. As he stepped out and shut the door, he quipped, "Remind me again why we rented a Volvo, Carter?"

Carter shut her car door and shrugged. "I just like silver Volvos, Colonel. And you let me make the car rental reservation."

_I didn't ask about the color, but I'll file that away anyway,_ Jack thought. _Sam likes silver Volvos…_

SG-1 walked up to the front gate, kicking up some dirt clouds from the loose dust. _This gate looks much taller now that I'm standing in front of it,_ Jack thought. It was probably about ten feet high. He looked closer, noting some spots of rust along the iron bars. _I wonder how often Alfred gets to visit this property…_ "Well, kids, it's now or never." Jack inhaled deeply and then extended his hand to the side. "Teal'c, the key please."

Teal'c raised one eyebrow. "You did not give me the key, O'Neill."

Jack raised an eyebrow. He turned his head to the side to look at the Jaffa. "I gave you the key, Teal'c."

Teal'c shook his head. "You did not give it to me."

O'Neill nodded his head. He put his hands on his hips. "Yes, I did."

"No, you did not."

"Yes, I did, and—_ah!_" Jack held up a finger to stop Teal'c from rebutting. "You can't say that I never gave it to you."

Teal'c looked away with a raised eyebrow. "I cannot present to you that which you did not give me, O'Neill."

"But—!"

Daniel sneezed.

"Bless you," Jack and Sam replied in unison.

"Thank you," sniffed Daniel, rubbing at his nose with his sleeve.

Sam looked at Daniel in concern. "Are you taking your antihistamines?"

Daniel nodded. "Yes, but all of this dust and pollen is probably aggravating my allergies." He sneezed again and then griped, "How do these people stand it…" He sniffled again, and then, deciding against the sleeve, reached into his pocket. He froze. "Um, Jack…?"

Jack turned. "Yes, Daniel?"

"I think that you gave the key to me," Daniel said sheepishly. He held out a small manila envelope between his fingers.

Silence.

"Ah." Jack reached out and took the package stiffly. He looked it over, but there was only one small manila envelope that he had come into contact with that day, and this one was marked with a small smiley in the corner, which he had drawn to keep himself awake during the meeting. There was no faking his smileys, dammit. And that meant that Teal'c was right; he had given it to Daniel during his sleep-deprived brain fog that morning. "Thank you, Daniel," he muttered.

Teal'c inclined an eyebrow and looked away, smiling.

Daniel sneezed again. This time, he found the tissue in his pocket.

* * *

><p><span>AN: So, some notes that I'm not sure if I'll be able to squeeze in elsewhere in the story:

Ontario (Ottawa) is one hour ahead of Texas.

This story is taking place in the summer. This means that it's miserably hot in Texas, and there is still snow in the Rocky Mountains of Colorado.

The poem from which Hartwood quotes is Claude McKay's "If We Must Die." It was written during the Harlem Renaissance about the black lynchings, but it was read by Churchill and by Congress during World War II as a rallying cry. (There is nothing specified in the poem about the lynchings.) Rodriguez hears and then quotes Milton's "Lycidas," one of the great English poetical elegies. (I figure that Hartwood was the type to randomly recite poetry, so if he recited Milton, "Lycidas" is one that Rodriguez would have heard, after "Paradise Lost".)

I don't know if this is the same among other militaries, but there is (friendly) rivalry between the American military branches. Like the cultural stereotypes upon which Hetalia is based, the branches have their own stereotypes of the type of people that are generally within that service branch. An Air Force stereotype is lack of activity. (For example, if you wanted to join the military to fly airplanes, nowadays, you would have a greater chance of flying by entering the Navy's flight schools, or maybe even the Army's, than by entering the Air Force…) Adding to that how they're flying a lot of drones now, which don't require real pilots, and you have the nickname of "Chair Force" (and "bus drivers," but I think that one might be in reference to flying the larger aircraft). But they have the best lodging among the military bases, go figure. (Among the branches, the Navy is touted with the best food, the Air Force with the best lodging, and the Army… does their best to stay at a base of one of the other two branches. :P)

The Air Force Academy, like its sister academies the Naval Academy and West Point, are heavily focused on science and engineering. There are some liberal arts majors, such as English, History, Philosophy, etc., but they're fewer compared to the STEM majors (Science, Technology, Engineering, Math). That's why Rodriguez and Hartwood tease each other for being liberal arts majors in the flashback. (By the way, Rodriguez majored in History and minored in Spanish, which is why he was talking about _Don Quixote_ and _El Cid_. Hartwood majored in English and would have minored in Latin if it was offered.)

My family and I actually had a GPS tell us "You are lost" on the highway once. It was hilarious and horrifying.

I hope that you enjoyed the chapter! Please leave a review and share your thoughts! I love hearing from you! :)


	11. Part the Eleventh

A/N: Chapter Eleven! How is this so soon! (Because I felt the sudden urge to write… It must be because I felt the pressure of a lot of projects and the challenge to not give this up…)

Enjoy!

Disclaimer: I do not own _Hetalia Axis Powers_ or _Stargate SG-1_. They belong to their respective owners. I am making no money off of this fanfiction. It is for entertainment purposes only.

* * *

><p><span>Into the Wild Blue Yonder—Part the Eleventh<span>

_Texas, United States_

_Alfred's Property_

O'Neill unlocked the iron gates with a firm twist of the key and pushed one gate forward. The hinges creaked, a slow, high-pitched whine. "Well, that's not creepy at all, is it?"

"_Mreow!"_

Jack's gaze shot down. The largest and fluffiest cat that Jack had even seen was standing in front of his boots and staring up at him. It had long white hair and a band of brown fur around its neck. The brown fur reminded Jack of Alfred's bomber jacket, although he wasn't sure why that image popped into his head. He questioned his mind further when, upon seeing that the cat had a small tuft of hair sticking up, he thought of Alfred's cowlick.

"I guess pets really do look like their owners," Jack joked. As he bent down to look at the cat, he paused, mesmerized. The cat's wide, bright blue eyes were staring back at him. What was the likelihood that the cat's eyes— "Well, assuming that you're Alfred's, at any rate."

"_Mreoow!"_ The cat jumped forward and rubbed himself against Jack's legs, purring.

"Based on that reaction, I'm going to continue to presume that you're his."

The cat continued to purr enthusiastically. Jack considered petting it, until he realized that it was shedding long white fur all over his pants.. _How long would it take to remove that if I used tape…?_

"Aw, he's cute. By his size, he's probably a Maine Coon. And listen to that motor!" Carter cooed. The cat looked up from rubbing against O'Neill's pant leg to purr in Carter's direction, its blue eyes shining as though it knew that it had just been complimented.

Daniel sneezed. "I don't care how cute it is or how loud it purrs. It's making my allergies act up more, so please, just keep it over _there_." He blew his nose with the tissue that he had just put back into his pocket. "It's going to make me use up all of my tissues…"

The cat stopped rubbing O'Neill's pant leg (so Jack reclaimed his leg happily) to turn and look at Daniel. Jack would have almost sworn that he saw a mischievous glint in its bright blue eyes. It looked at the distance between himself and Daniel, and then, as if to prove O'Neill's suspicions, began to walk toward the sneezing linguist. Carter intercepted the tom, stroking his head as he started to pass her. "Your fur's really soft. I bet that Alfred takes really good care of you." She scratched under his chin and then stroked his back.

The cat quickly attached itself to Carter, rubbing against her legs and purring even louder than when it had covered Jack's pants with fur. _"Mreow!"_

"Aw," Carter cooed again. She reached down and picked it up. The cat did not resist; and, if anything, Jack would have sworn that it was purring _louder_.

"How loud can those things purr?" he asked.

"If this one is any indication, they can purr quite loudly, O'Neill," Teal'c replied.

"I gathered that. Thanks, Teal'c."

"You are welcome, O'Neill."

Carter petted the cat in her arms, and the cat purred loudly and happily. It rubbed his head against Carter's chin. "Hey, that tickles!"

"Down, boy." Jack plucked the purring tom from Carter's arms and held it out at arm's length to avoid getting fur on his jacket sleeves. Who knew how hard it would be to get fur off of leather.

The cat squirmed.

"C'mon, sir, put him down. Cats don't like to be held like that," Carter defended.

Jack put the cat down as slowly as he could with its thrashing. "You're lucky she's here to defend you," he told it, "or I'd be finding a way to bill you for the hair."

The cat shook itself off and then groomed itself. With its narrowed gaze at Jack, he would have sworn that it was annoyed at him. Once its ruffled fur was righted, the cat stood up straight and stared at the four of them, his blue eyes intense and his white fluffy tail swishing behind him on the sparse grass. Like it was waiting for them for announce why they were there.

There were shadows under the cat's eyes that almost looked like rectangular glasses…

Jack sighed as he pinched the bridge of his nose. He had already thought about the other similarities between this cat and his missing nation; he wasn't going to consider the glasses, too. Cats just didn't wear glasses.

He should have asked Teal'c to drive instead. He could have slept while watching the GPS.

Jack inhaled, exhaled, and then rested his hands on his hips. Admittedly, he was a dog person, but he was especially _not_ a cat person to toms who were being extra friendly to his Major. He stared down at it, and it stared unblinkingly back. That intelligence…

He looked away, and then he pinched the bridge of his nose again. Was that a headache that he felt? "I'm about to talk to a cat," he muttered, "but I hereby assure one and all that I am not going crazy."

Jack stared down at the cat again as the cat continued to stare at him. He squatted down, missing eye level with the cat by about a foot, but they were closer. "Listen," Jack said seriously.

The cat inclined his head as he appeared to give all of his attention to the Colonel.

"Your owner—or housemate, or servant, or whatever it is that a cat _actually_ considers its owner to be—is currently missing."

The cat stopped swishing his tail, muscles tense.

"We're looking for him though, and he'll be back to feed you as soon as he can."

The cat blinked. He swished his tail a couple of times.

"Now, we'd ask you questions—you appear more intelligent than the average house cat that I've come into contact with—" the cat's ears perked up, "—but unfortunately, we have a language barrier."

The cat's ears drooped.

Jack almost laughed. "However, if you're still understanding me, you can help us by helping us find Tony. Alfred shares the same boss with us, and we were told by him that this Tony could help us. Do you know if he's here?"

The cat turned his head to the side, staring at Jack. Then it looked away, an ear flicking.

Jack sighed and stood back up, stretching. That was a waste of time. Just because pets looked like their owners did not mean that there was a chance that they could be just as smart. "I guess I was crazy after all," he muttered.

Suddenly, the cat erected itself up, as if standing at attention, and it emitted a quick, plaintive meow. It stood and turned to leave. Jack almost pretended to send a kick in its direction when the cat turned back to look at them, as though checking to see if SG-1 was following.

Jack exhaled almost in wonder. "Guess I wasn't that crazy…" He stepped forward to follow it. Carter and Teal'c stepped in line behind O'Neill.

"Are we really following that?" Daniel asked from several feet away.

Jack looked back. "Do you have any better ideas?" He pointed at the tom. "He seems to know where he's going."

"And we're going to trust a cat?"

The cat turned back with flattened ears and stopped moving. _"Mreow."_

Jack laughed. "I think that you offended it, Daniel."

The cat looked at Jack, his ears still back. _"Mreow."_

"Now how did _I_ offend you?"

Carter laughed. "I think that he's unhappy at being called an 'it,' Colonel."

The cat looked at Carter and meowed happily.

"See?"

Jack turned back to the linguist. "Careful, Daniel. Carter might steal your job this time. She seems able to speak Cat."

"I don't particularly care, Jack. As long as he stays where I won't sneeze because of him, Carter can do all of the translating that she likes in my stead."

Jack looked at the tom. "You okay with that?"

The cat flicked his ear.

"Look, we need him to help find your owner, but we need him preferably not sneezing up a storm. Could you please not make him sneeze while we're here?" Jack paused, and then added, "Tell you what, you make him sneeze when we're leaving. How about that?"

"_Mreow!"_

"That's not funny, Jack..."

The cat trotted lightly through the dry grass and wove his way through the tall oak and mesquite trees, following the path that led from the gate. Jack was pleased to note that the cacti began to disperse the further away from the fence that he moved, although it was encroaching naturally inward. _What are the red things on the cacti called again…? It was something like fish…_

About a minute later, the trees thinned into a clearing, although there were still trees littering the area. Jack was less happy that the shade had disappeared. He adjusted the hat on his head, but then did a double-take. _Where'd he go—ah, there he is._

The cat was now about fifteen feet ahead of him instead of ten. And as it turned around to meow at them (probably telling them to hurry up, the roadrunner), Jack saw the house that loomed behind him. He nodded appreciatively.

It was a modest two-story house, flanked by a few mesquite and oak trees. Off around the back of the house, Jack saw a few magnolia and pine trees, too. Bluebonnets and wildflowers grew all over the yard around the house, and they spread into the wooded areas. _Is all of this natural foliage? It doesn't look organized enough for the kid to have done it… Who knew that Texas could have some beauty…_

Jack looked up at the house. The beige brick and the dark roof complemented the drier landscape. There were large, double-paned windows and an oaken front door. Extending on both sides of the front door, there was an extended front porch, with a concrete floor and ceiling but brick pillars and wooden handrails. There was a brick step leading up onto the porch, which the cat was now sitting on proudly. _"Mreow."_

Jack looked back at the cat. "Well, this is a nice house, but I think that it's Alfred's."

"_Mreow."_

"What happened to Tony?" Daniel asked.

"If I knew that, Daniel, I would offer the answer."

Daniel's sneeze prevented a retort.

Jack sniffed the breeze. _Ah, pine pollen. Isn't it great?_

Carter tried her hand with the cat. "Does Tony live here?"

The cat flicked an ear and then looked away. Carter looked the same way, but all she saw was grass and trees. "Does he live over there?" She started walking that way, but the cat's meow brought her back. "No?"

Jack sighed. _If we're relying on the cat to meow to tell us if we're going in the right direction, this is going to take a while._

The cat turned around and hopped up onto the porch. It walked up the door, and, after stretching its paws upwards, proceeded to paw the front door. _"Mreow…"_

"Is Tony inside the house?" Daniel asked.

The cat meowed excitedly when Jack stepped forward. "Probably?" The cat continued pawing at the door as SG-1 stepped onto the porch. O'Neill reached for the doorknob.

"Is it locked?" Daniel asked.

Jack twisted the doorknob, but the door didn't budge. "No, Daniel. You simply can't open an unlocked door."

Daniel huffed. "Well, I thought that since the gate was locked and if Tony was inside, then it _might_ just happen to be unlocked."

"Maybe Tony keeps the door locked."

"Shall I ring the doorbell, O'Neill?" Teal'c asked. Jack turned to look incredulously at Teal'c, but the Jaffa rang the doorbell before the colonel could say anything.

Silence.

"Maybe Tony doesn't like answering the door," O'Neill said. He reached for the manila envelope in his pocket, but when he pulled it out to check, there wasn't a second key. "That White House guy didn't give us a house key." He looked at Daniel, Sam, and Teal'c.

Daniel shrugged. "He probably thought that there wasn't a need for it. But then that would imply that Tony is somewhere out here, and I don't see anything or anyone from here."

"Yeah, me neither." Jack waved the manila folder in his hand. "And there's no chance that there's a second small manila envelope that would hold the key to the front door that I might have given to one of you but forgotten about?"

Sam shook her head. "Sorry, Colonel. No chance at all."

Teal'c shook his his. "I have none, O'Neill."

Jack turned to the last member of SG-1. "Daniel?" he asked pointedly.

Daniel huffed. "Jack, if I had another key, I would have given it to you by now." He pulled several tissues to demonstrate the lack of a key in his pockets.

"You'd forgotten about the first one," Jack reminded.

"That was the first one, and I'm positive that you only gave me one," Daniel said, blowing his nose.

"Shucks."

"If we don't have a key to the front door, then how are we getting in?" Carter asked. "Does the key to the gate work on the door?"

Jack pulled out the gate key, but it didn't fit in the front door lock. "Nope. Any other ideas, guys?"

"How about we ask this guy?" Carter asked. She looked down at the cat that had stopped pawing at the door and was instead waiting expectantly. "Is there a spare key?"

The cat rushed over to one of the pillars. _"Mreow!"_

Jack walked over to the pillar, looking over the bricks. _Ah, look at that._ Jack pulled out a loose brick to find it hollowed. There was a key resting inside of it. He pulled the key out and then looked down at the cat. "You know, you're giving away all of your master's secrets. You should be glad that we're on his side." _May you never guard my house. Even if there's nothing to steal but beer._

The cat stared at Jack for a second, cocked his head to the side, and then hurried back to the door. He rubbed his paws on the door and meowed insistently.

"All right, I'm coming. Hold your horses…" Jack muttered. He replaced the loose brick and walked over to the front door. He stuck the key in the lock, and the cat stilled at his feet. _Let's hope that there's not an alarm system… or an angry, stranded Asgard waiting to zap me just beyond the door… _He turned the key.

As soon as the door opened a crack, the cat stuck its nose in the crevice, pushing it forward. As soon as it was open enough, it shot through the door.

Jack stared into the tiled foyer, lit by the light of the windows in the living room. "Who wants to greet the invisible Asgard first?"

"_Mreow!"_ the cat whined plaintively, sound muffled by distance.

Jack hesitantly stepped onto the tile, knowing that if he didn't go first, Carter might in order to follow the whining cat. He reached into his jacket to rest his palm on the butt of his pistol. "Anyone home?" he called out.

"_Mreooow!"_

Carter reached over and flipped on the light switch. The foyer flooded with light, and Jack could see that the interior paint was cream, with the living room carpet a light beige. "Tony?" he called out, stepping into the living room and walking slowly around an armchair.

"_Mreoooow!"_

That cat was making him nervous. Where did it go? He carefully turned a corner.

"_Mreow!"_ The cat ran over to Jack, rubbed his pant legs, and then rushed back to the side of the kitchen. His blue eyes were the widest and brightest that Jack had seen as he stood next to a food and water dish. He nudged at one of the bowls with a paw, whining, _"Mreoooooow!"_

"_Are you serious?"_ Jack exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air. "You let us into the house and gave us the spare key because _you were hungry_?"

"_Mreooow!" _ He batted the bowl and flicked his tail.

Jack looked around the kitchen frustratedly. "Is Tony even in the house?"

The cat flicked an ear.

Jack sighed. "Tony's not in the house, is he."

The cat looked behind him. Jack followed its gaze through a window and saw the expanse of grass and trees. "There's nothing there, kid. Where's Tony?"

The cat looked back at Jack. _"Mreow."_ He nudged the bowl with wide eyes.

Jack exhaled deeply.

Carter came up from behind O'Neill. "I'll feed him and give him water, Colonel. There's probably food in the pantry." As the cat raced ahead of her, she turned back and said, "Then we'll look around the house and property, all right?"

Jack sighed and nodded. "All right."

* * *

><p>SG-1 made a sweep of the house, and it was empty. It took them a couple of hours to sweep the property.<p>

Jack decided that he wasn't going to miss cacti when they left, after the size of some of the spiders that he had found in them (_dinner plates!_) and the size of the thorns that he nearly impaled himself on once when he tripped on a fallen branch. But he did learn from Daniel the name of the red bulbs: they were called _tunas_. It was Spanish, and Jack realized why he had been reminded of fish.

They also discovered a large shed, a small pond, several patches of dirt that the grass seemed to have given up growing on, and a landing strip a short distance from the house. Jack wondered where the kid kept the airplane.

There was no sign of Tony. In fact, there was no sign of a space ship at all.

SG-1 regrouped at the back door to the house.

"No sign of Tony I presume?" Jack checked.

Daniel, Sam, and Teal'c shook their heads.

"There were none, O'Neill," Teal'c said.

"I found nothing," Sam supplied.

"None," Daniel said with another shake of his head. Then he sneezed and pulled out a tissue the number of which Jack didn't care to know.

Jack gestured to the property. "There's no hidden section of property that I could have missed from falling asleep during the debriefing meeting, is there?"

"None, sir," Carter said.

"We have an alien with a _broken spaceship_. He was supposed to be _here_. Where the _heck_ could he have gone?" Jack exclaimed.

Pause. "Maybe this is why the President said 'if' we could find him?" Daniel ventured.

"I highly doubt that he was anticipating a real possibility of us _not_ finding him," Jack deterred.

"Then maybe he actually fixed the ship? Alfred did say that Tony had supposed to have been close to fixing it when he met us."

Jack exhaled deeply. "I guess that that's possible. But_ now_ of all times?"

Daniel shrugged. "That's my big idea. You have any other ideas where he could be, Jack?"

"How am _I_ supposed to know?"

"Look, sir, it's almost 1700," Carter broke in. "Let's go back inside the house and get some water or something, maybe see if we can find something to eat. We didn't have much of a lunch, and maybe a short rest might help an option appear."

Jack sighed. "All right." He turned around and gestured toward the door. "You heard Carter, guys—back in the house."

* * *

><p>SG-1 had rested for a few minutes with water and soda. Jack was happy to find a beer for himself, although he wondered how Alfred was able to buy it legally—given the fact that the dossier said he was physically 19—until he realized that Alfred knew a lot of people who could pull strings, and one of those who knew that he wasn't really 19 could also pull the most. Besides that, Alfred probably had several IDs with varying names and ages so that he could keep himself within the system and yet hidden.<p>

Sam had just suggested looking for food when the cat's ears perked up. It looked outside, and then quicker than Jack had expected (because the cat had suddenly started acting droopy after they got in the house and he had been fed), it rushed toward the back door. Just as Jack was about to yell at him to be careful, he passed through it. _There's a pet door. Of course, that's how he got outside. But judging by how we found him _outside_, he probably can't get back _in_._

Then Jack heard a whirring buzz.

"Is that Tony?" Daniel asked.

Jack shook his head. "You don't hear Asgard ships, large or small. That sounds like an airplane." _And there happens to be a small air strip in the backyard—_

* * *

><p><em>Washington, D.C., United States<em>

_The White House _

The red phone rang on the President's desk. He watched it ring, his hand tight around his pen, before he reached out with his other hand and picked up the phone. "Hello?"

"_I heard that Alfred has taken a trip."_

The President's jaw clenched. He put his pen down. _Not now…_ "You are aware of the duties for one such as yourself. Travel is a constant in your life."

A laugh. _"Ah, but I have heard that Alfred has taken a _different_ kind of trip."_

The President leaned forward on his left forearm and took a deep breath. "Alfred travels as part of his duties. If you wish to speak to him, you may call him yourself. But don't blame me if he doesn't call back right away. I gave him a busy schedule."

"_I have already called him, and he did not reply. While we sometimes ignore each other in fun, we do speak. Today, he did not." _Pause._ "Where has he gone?"_

The President leaned back in his chair. "Look, if he was nearby, I would pass the phone over. But I already told you, he's not here right now. You'll just have to try calling his cellphone again."

"_He fell through the Stargate."_

The President's hand tightened around the red phone. "That's preposterous."

A laugh. _"Ah, I am right."_

The President's left fist clenched. He picked the pen back up with his other hand and tapped it on the desk. "There is no way that Alfred could have done so."

More light laughter. _"Yes, you keep the child on short leash. But I am right."_

"And _how_ are you right?"

"_There is only one person I know who could have gone to see your Stargate yesterday with the ability to, how you say, send people flying with fists. Therefore, he is the only one who could have fallen through."_

The pen snapped in the President's hand.

"_I am right."_

The President fumbled for words, finally saying instead, "Why are you calling me and not Alfred?"

"_Ah, that _is_ a question. Why could I gain by calling _you_?"_

* * *

><p><span>AN: Now who could _that_ possibly be?

From notes that I got off of the character dossiers on the SG-1 Wikia, Jack is a dog person (but that I remembered from an episode). There was no specification for Carter, so I made her a cat person (it _did_ say that she likes silver Volvos, though, hence last chapter…). I didn't remember a specification for Daniel's allergies, so I just made it the typical dust, pollen, dander, fur, etc. combination.

There was a Nekotalia opportunity (and an opportunity for something light-hearted, since half of the genre of this _is_ Humor, after all), so I took it. Americat guards America's house (when he's not pining for food).

We've breached 4500 hits, everyone! I've never had a story with so many readers and followers. Thank you all so much for all of your support in reading, reviewing, favoriting, and alerting, and for sticking with me this far. It helps keep this story going. Please R&R and share your thoughts!


	12. Part the Twelfth

A/N: Happy New Year, everyone! :) This chapter's longer than usual (almost twice as long as some of the chapters) and required more fussing. I hope that you enjoy it!

Disclaimer: I do not own _Hetalia Axis Powers_ or _Stargate SG-1_. They belong to their respective owners. I am making no money off of this fanfiction. It is for entertainment purposes only.

* * *

><p><span>Into the Wild Blue Yonder—Part the Twelfth<span>

SG-1 hurried outside. Sure enough, a small airplane flew low, directed toward the landing strip. _Surely the Asgard hasn't downgraded their fleet to small personal airplanes?_

The airplane—a 1975 Cessna 150, Jack noted with interest—landed, coming to a smooth stop by the end of the airstrip. Jack rested his hand on the butt of his pistol inside his jacket, and Carter did the same beside him.

The airplane's engine shut off, and slowly, the propeller ceased spinning.

Jack wished that he could see inside the cockpit. Was this friendly or hostile? He shook his head to himself as he pulled out the pistol and leveled it in defense. He didn't know if this was friendly or hostile, but he knew one for sure—this was the private property of Alfred F. Jones, and he couldn't recall the dossier listing _anyone_ that had permission to enter the property, let alone fly an airplane into it. With his nation missing, he couldn't take chances. The rest of SG-1 mirrored their colonel.

There was a tense moment of silence as no one exited the Cessna.

"Sir, do we engage?" Carter murmured beside him.

Jack tightened his hands around his pistol, but he shook his head. "No, not yet," he muttered. _Just one more moment._

Jack saw movement within the cockpit. He steadied his muscles. The side door of the aircraft squeaked open. A thin figure stepped out, holding his hands up. "Please don't shoot?" he called quietly.

Jack froze. _ He knew that hair_—"It's a clone of Daniel!"

The figure stared, his eyes widened. "Eh, what?"

Daniel snorted. "He looks nothing like me, Jack."

"Yes, he does."

Carter turned her head. "Actually, from a distance, I think so, too. It's the hair, Daniel."

"_See?"_

"My hair was _never_ that long, Jack."

"It was indeed at one point, Daniel Jackson."

Daniel sighed. If _Teal'c _was joining in… "_Fine_, maybe he resembles me a little. But I assure you, he's _not_ my clone." Daniel gestured to the newcomer. "I mean, look at him! He can't be over 19 years old, and based on his accent he's _Canadian_, not American."

The newcomer froze.

"_Canadian? _Isn't he a long way from home then?_"_ Jack took a second look at the pilot. He was wearing a red hoodie, jeans, and sneakers. A crimson maple leaf outlined in white was stitched on to the hoodie. _Okay, maybe he _is_ Canadian, _Jack thought. And from the roundness in his face and his mode of dress, he _did_ appear to be a teenager. He had shoulder-length wavy blond hair and round-lensed glasses. The hair had distracted him, but that face—_wait._

That was Alfred's face.

Jack didn't know he could, but he tensed even more. _How is this possible—?_

"Could I ask you who are you and what you're doing here?" the teenager asked from beside the airplane, breaking Jack from his thoughts. "And, uh, that you don't shoot me, eh?" he murmured, his hands still in the air and his voice almost trailing off to a squeak.

"Well, as far as I know, you're trespassing on private property, and it doesn't appear to be due to engine trouble. I believe that we have the right to ask you for your identification first," Jack responded. "Who are you, and what you doing here?"

The teenager sighed, attempting and failing to blow a loose, curly strand of hair out from his face. "My name is Matthew Williams. Could you please lower your weapon?" he asked wearily. "I'm sorry that I surprised you, but I'm not armed. You can search me if you want."

_Have I heard that name before…? No, I don't think so. _Jack lowered the gun from eye-level, but he didn't loosen his grip. "It would admittedly be nicer to not shoot anyone today, Mr. Williams," he said. He could_ probably _forego searching the kid. Those who offered to be searched usually did so because they really weren't armed—or they were overconfident, which this kid didn't appear to be. And Jack was usually a good judge. "What are you doing here?"

The kid lowered his hands to his sides and eyed SG-1 warily. "I came to meet my brother. This is his home."

"You needed to fly an airplane here to do that?" Jack asked.

Matthew shrugged imperceptibly. "As your friend noticed, I'm from Canada. Flying was the fastest way to get here. I didn't want to spend a week driving, eh."

"So you flew that tiny Cessna 150 all the way from _Canada_?"

Matthew rocked on his heels, embarrassed. "Ehhh, no. I took a flight to San Antonio, and then I flew the Cessna out of Lackland Air Force Base. Al got them to agree to house my plane for me when I flew it down the last time."

Jack gestured around the wide expanse of Alfred's property. "Let me guess, there wasn't enough space for it here?"

"No, there's plenty of space here. Al just hasn't _built_ the hanger that he's been promising to build, so his is there, too," the Canadian huffed.

"Ah."

"Look, I'm just here to check on my brother, and then I'll be on my way," Matthew said. "If you ask the commanding officer at Lackland Air Force Base, they'll verify that I have permission to house my plane there through Al. And wherever he is inside of his house, if you ask Alfred, he'll tell you that I have permission to be here." He hesitated, eyeing SG-1 warily again, and then asked, "You _are _members of the Secret Service? Alfred is here, isn't he?"

"Alfred's your brother?" Sam clarified.

Matthew nodded. "Yes, he's my twin brother."

"You know, that's kind of funny. Although Alfred said that he has a twin—and you _do_ look like him—your last names don't match up," Daniel commented.

Matthew sighed. "I told you the truth. Alfred is my twin brother."

Matthew's face _did_ look like Alfred's, and Jack guessed that Alfred and Matthew were about the same height, but Daniel's point stood. How could they be twins when their last names were different? Yet why did it feel like the kid was telling the truth? Jack probed the feeling, and suddenly, he was back in the debriefing room:

"_Who's Mattie?" Daniel asked excitedly. "You mentioned his name earlier. Which country is he?"_

"_Oh, he's my twin brother. He's Canada!" _ _America announced proudly._

Jack scrutinized Matthew's face. The teen looked eerily like America—the face shape was _almost_ identical—but the hair was distracting from a distance. Alfred's hair was shorter, straighter, and more golden, whereas Matthew's was blonder, wavier, and he didn't have that unnatural-looking cowlick. They were about the same height, with maybe Alfred _slightly_ taller than Matthew. Jack supposed that Mattie _could _be a derivative of Matthew (which would also explain why 'Matthew Williams' didn't ring any bells). Daniel said that his accent was Canadian, but perhaps nations had different rules for last names. And given that even the so-called "identical" twins were never _perfectly_ identical, maybe… "Could I see your identification?" Jack asked. _If I guess correctly before Daniel does…_

Matthew turned at Jack, confused, and then he shrugged cautiously. "All right, eh," he said. He reached into his back pocket and then carefully tossed his wallet over to Jack. Jack caught and opened the leather bi-fold with his left hand. He angled the ID card to catch the sun, checking the colors and their vibrancy through the plastic pocket. It appeared to be a legitimate Canadian government ID card (given the Canadian flag in the corner), and it was issued to Matthew Williams. There was the kid's face in thumbnail—still almost the same face as Alfred.

Jack chuckled. "Imagine the odds." He closed the wallet and tossed it back to the kid, who caught it without a fumble. "Canada, I presume?"

The kid jolted. "I—I'm Canadian, eh," he said, eyeing Jack warily as he quickly replaced the wallet in the back pocket of his jeans.

Jack nodded. "Yeah, I saw your ID card, and we've established that already. But that's not what I said."

"Wait a minute, Jack," Daniel exclaimed. "Are you saying that _he's_ Canada?"

"If he's Alfred's twin, who else would he be?" Jack asked.

Matthew took a step backward, laughing uncomfortably. "I, uh, really don't know what you're talking about, eh," he said, patting the air with his hands. "I'm—"

"_Mreow!"_

Matthew's eyes widened at the same time as SG-1's. At some point, the cat that had run out ahead of SG-1—and whom Jack had lost track of, given the distraction of Matthew's Cessna and arrival—had moved over to Matthew. It slowly rubbed against the teen's pants leg, meowing plaintively. "Eh, hello. I thought that you might be here, but I hadn't seen you. Do you know where Alfred is, Valor?" Matthew asked.

"Valor?" Sam echoed. "Is that his name?"

Matthew nodded hesitantly at Sam. "Yes."

"Well, Valor seems friendly to him," Sam said, looking at Jack.

"He was friendly to _us_, Sam," Daniel pointed out. "And he didn't know us."

"Yeah, but we had to introduce ourselves first."

"No, we_ didn't_, Sam."

Sam ignored Daniel and looked at Jack. "Sir?"

"For once, I think that that cat is answering my question." Jack replaced his pistol inside his jacket. SG-1 followed Jack's lead hesitantly. Valor stopped rubbing against Matthew's pants—which, to Jack's chagrin, did not suffer from as much fur as his had suffered—and sat down next to Matthew's shoes. He rubbed his head jerkily against Matthew's left pants leg with a soft purr. Then he looked at O'Neill with his unwavering bright blue gaze, meowing once more. "If Valor knows you without an introduction—because he _did_ make us eventually state our purpose for being here, before he led us to the house—then you've been here before. If you've been here before, then you're probably Alfred's twin," he said. "And if you're his twin, then _you're_ Canada."

"So you _are_ Canada, then?" Daniel asked excitedly, turning to Matthew.

Matthew looked up guardedly at SG-1, his muscles tense. "Look, I—"

Valor wailed sharply and tumbled forward halfway over Matthew's left shoe.

"_Valor!"_ Matthew cried, bending down to the cat.

Sam stepped forward, but she didn't move away from SG-1. "Is he okay?"

Matthew didn't answer, focused on the weakened creature. He tried to pick up Valor, but as soon as his hand met fur, the cat protested loudly. Valor attempted to push himself up, his legs wobbling from the effort, but he collapsed back over Matthew's sneaker with a pitiful, _"Mreoow…" _before he could right himself.

Matthew shook his head quickly. "I don't know, but he doesn't look good. And if he's not well, then—" His eyes widened. "Oh, no, _Alfred!_" He scooped up the cat carefully in his arms, and despite its cries, it didn't attempt to jump out of Matthew's arms. "C'mon, Valor, what's happened to Alfred?"

Valor meowed, a long, plaintive but quiet wail. He burrowed his face into the crook Matthew's arm, but the sound carried out through the fabric, muffled. His long fur puffed up, and Jack could see that the cat, so energetic when they arrived, was now trembling. Jack wasn't sure if it was from fear or weakness, but it could have been both.

Matthew's eyebrows furrowed. "C'mon, Valor," he murmured.

"_Mreow…"_

Matthew shook his head. "This isn't going to work. I need to find Alfred." He turned back toward the airplane, Valor in his arms.

"Canada," Jack called.

Matthew stopped moving. He looked over his shoulder. "I'm sorry for being rude, but I really need to leave now. Since Alfred isn't here, I'll look for him elsewhere." Matthew continued toward the Cessna.

Jack looked down to the dying grass at his feet. He took a deep breath. "I won't stop you from leaving, but… you're not going to find your twin, Matthew."

Matthew stopped and turned around fully this time, his eyes narrowed. "What did you say?"

"Sir?" Carter turned to Jack. "Our orders were to find Tony—"

"Well, Tony obviously isn't here," Jack replied. "Not that they were even certain that he would be here, remember?" He looked at Matthew. "Although on that note, _you_ wouldn't happen to know who Tony is and where he could be, would you?"

Matthew huffed. "You imply that something has happened to my brother, and then you ask me about one of his friends instead? Why don't you tell me what's happened to Alfred, since you seem to know more than what _you've_ shared so far?"

Jack sighed. "Look, kid. I'm sorry, we're not trying to antagonize you, but we really need information."

"What are you even doing here if Alfred isn't here?" Matthew asked. "Technically, _I_ should have given you the speech about private property. Alfred's given me permission to be here, but I don't know who you are and if _you_ have any."

"We have permission to be here," Jack affirmed.

Matthew raised an eyebrow. "How about I ask for _your_ identification then? Your friend mentioned that you have orders. If they're legit, then you'll have papers."

Jack shrugged. "Why not? You gave me yours." He reached inside his jacket.

"Sir?" Carter asked anxiously.

"What?" Jack asked. "This is what we were given the copy of the orders for, right? To prove that we can be here? Why not use them, if he knows how the system works?" He pulled out a thin sheet of paper and offered it in Matthew's direction. "Although I don't think that you'll want me to throw this. It won't reach you, and with the cat in your arms, you wouldn't catch it anyway."

Matthew sighed. "You're right." He placed Valor on the ground, and stroked the fur on his head gently. "I'm sorry, Valor. I'll be right back, okay? Then we'll look for Al." Valor meowed and curled up in the dry grass, burying his face in his large, dusty paws.

Matthew walked over to SG-1, and Jack stepped forward to meet him partway, his arm extended. Matthew took the paper and unfolded it. He scanned the page. "Well, that looks like the legitimate Presidential seal." He offered it back to Jack, and Jack refolded the copy of their orders and put it back into his inside jacket pocket. "I'd like to know why the _President_ sent you here, though. You said that you're looking for Tony, but the paper doesn't say that. It just says that you're here for information and that you have permission to be on Al's property."

"Since you seem to know who Tony is, you can probably guess why they wouldn't print something that would cause more trouble for someone who didn't. We knew who we were looking for." Jack shook his head as he looked around the backyard property around the airstrip. "Or, at least, we _thought_ we did."

Matthew looked around. He pointed to a dirt patch a short distance from the airstrip. "That's where his ship normally is."

"Huh," Jack said. "That's funny, because that's where Valor was looking every time that we asked him where Tony was." _So he _was_ answering after all._

Matthew shrugged. "His ship isn't here for some reason, but I have no idea where he is, eh."

"No problem. I'm just glad to hear that we're not going insane. Or searching for an invisible… Tony." _Can't call him an Asgard in front of you._ Jack exhaled, and then he looked briefly back at the house. "It's been a pleasure meeting you, Matthew, but now that we know that Tony isn't here, we need to lock up and go home. I wish you a safe trip back home." He tilted the visor of his hat toward the teen in farewell, and then he spun on his heel.

Matthew's hand shot forward, grasping the edge of O'Neill's jacket. "Wait." Jack turned, his surprised gaze following the gripped leather to Matthew's hand, but as soon as it reached the edge of the red sleeve Matthew released him with a short gasp and a rapid, "I'm sorry." He took an apologetic step back, but his eyes were locked on Jack's—wide and too-bright, almost glassy. For the first time, Jack noticed that Matthew's eyes were violet.

"I… You said…" Matthew shook his head, stared down at the grass for a second, took a steadying breath, and then looked back up to meet Jack's gaze, the violet eyes still wide and too-bright. "You're here on Alfred's property with orders from the President. You implied that something has happened to Al. Please, tell me—don't you know where my brother is?"

Jack exhaled deeply. "I'm sorry, kid, but we don't know where he is."

"Then why are you looking for information on his property if not because you're looking for him?"

Jack shook his head. "I'm sorry, but that's classified."

"Please, he's my twin," Matthew pleaded. "Why can't you tell me if something's happened to him?"

"I just told you. I'm not allowed to tell you."

"But—"

"Look, how do you know that something's wrong with him, anyway?" Jack asked. "Maybe he took off on a vacation and left his cellphone behind so we can't track him, and now we're looking for him to give him a good scolding and make him go back and finish the piles of paperwork that he left behind when he jumped ship during a meeting. Maybe we slapped a classified label on the affair because we don't want to admit that we haven't found him yet, and he gave us a bet that if we couldn't find him by tomorrow morning, he wouldn't have to do paperwork for a couple of weeks. Why do you think that you know that something's wrong with him? That he didn't just run off someplace and forget to tell you about it?"

"I…" Matthew bit his lip. He stared at the ground, swallowed thickly, and then he closed his eyes.

"Kid?"

Matthew inhaled and then exhaled deeply, once and then twice. He raised his gaze to meet Jack's—but this time, his eyes were narrowed in determination. "I'm his brother. This is different. I—I just know."

Jack studied Matthew, Alfred's twin who seemed to be insinuating a psychic connection and who was staring unwaveringly at him as he waited for a response from the colonel. He studied Valor where he lay in the grass, the cat who resembled his owner to an unnatural extent and who Matthew had seemed to insinuate bore a physical connection with Alfred. (However, given that the cat had gone from hale and hearty to sick as a dog in approximately two hours, Jack really hoped that Matthew's idea was unfounded…) He then studied the airplane resting a distance away at the edge of the short airstrip, the old Cessna that Matthew had flown quite expertly, from what Jack could tell.

Jack rubbed his temples with his right hand and took a deep breath. He rested his hands on his hips. _I can't believe that I'm considering this… No, actually, I can believe it._ Exhaling slowly, he looked back up. "I'd love to break the rules, kid—I'm known for breaking rules—heck, I _live_ to break rules—but this time, there's a lot at stake."

He met Matthew's determined gaze. "I can't tell you what we needed from Tony, but I can say that we're not a part of the Secret Service. You know, you introduced yourself, but we never actually introduced ourselves." He gestured to himself and to the rest of SG-1. "I'm Colonel Jack O'Neill, this is Major Samantha Carter, this is Dr. Daniel Jackson, and that's Teal'c. We're members of the United States Air Force, and we're stationed at Cheyenne Mountain Air Force Base in Colorado."

Matthew furrowed his eyebrows. "Wait a—"

"We don't have the _highest_ security clearance," Jack continued, "but it recently had a temporary upgrade, and we know what your brother is."

Matthew's eyes widened. "How—"

"We just do, and you're not supposed to know that," Jack said. "So, if you have _any_ hope of helping, please _don't_ tell anyone that you know that we know. Just act surprised when you hear it later—I'm sure that you can manage it—and for now, please answer my question." Jack took a step closer, and Matthew didn't break his gaze or step backward, so Jack asked, "Are you _really_ Alfred's twin brother? For all that that entails?"

A second passed, and then Matthew nodded slowly. "Yes, but—"

"How well do you trust this… feeling… that seems to be making you look for your brother?"

Matthew broke the gaze to look down at the dry, dusty ground. He bit his bottom lip as he stuck his hands in the front pocket of his hoodie, and then he inhaled slowly. "Well, I risked being found by someone who wasn't Alfred," he admitted quietly. "I… I don't know if you have any idea what that means."

Jack thought, but he couldn't remember anything from the FAQ sheet that the President had provided that could possibly explain the kid implication. "Nope."

Matthew hesitated, and then he murmured, "I traveled alone without Alfred in his country. I have his permission to be here, but technically, that permission is for _tomorrow_, not for today. I could have put both myself and my nation into a lot of trouble if I didn't find my brother quickly. Thankfully, they were training new recruits for boot camp right now, so most of the attention of the base was on them. For the rest of the stationed soldiers, several of the pilots and mechanics at Lackland knew me because of Alfred and our airplanes, I bluffed with a few others, and a couple of higher-ranking officers that I had the misfortune to run into with whom I might have gotten into trouble thankfully thought that I was Al long enough for me to find my plane, but…"

"Ah." Now he remembered. That was the answer to FAQ #14: _A national personification cannot travel within another country without either their host nation as escort or the permission of the host nation (the latter usually given for world meetings, given the impossibility of staying with all of the visiting nations at one time, but permission is usually limited to the town where the meeting is taking place), as the discovery of another nation traveling without permission in another's country can be taken as a declaration of war or as an attempt to spy._ "Well, then, you're willing to risk political danger for your twin. Are you willing to risk physical danger?"

Matthew gestured to the airplane. "I just flew an old Cessna here, didn't I? Then I risked being shot or captured when I stepped out of it."

Jack laughed uncomfortably. "Sorry about that."

Matthew shrugged. "Don't worry about it. If I was concerned about being attacked by an unknown on a private property like you were, I would have sought to defend myself, too. But, honestly, exiting the plane was safer than attempting to fly it back out again."

"Good point."

Matthew looked up at the sky and squinted from the bright sunlight. "And I don't really do as well in heat like this," he added offhandedly.

_That's probably because you're a wintry country. Not that I like the heat much better, given that I'm from a wintry state and then spend most of my time in the mountains or below them._ Jack looked up at the still-bright sky, thankful that the sun would be setting soon, hopefully. He shielded with his hand what the visor of his hat didn't catch. "Yeah, it is hot, huh? It was supposed to reach over 100 degrees today—Fahrenheit, that is. Sorry that I can't convert that to Celsius."

Matthew shrugged it off, and then he looked down at his hoodie, as though contemplating removing it. Then again, he had probably already thought about it but hadn't had the opportunity to do so. "The number doesn't really matter, eh. The heat's still the same, and I remember the Fahrenheit scale well enough."

"All right." Jack paused for a moment, mulling over the kid standing in front of him who could only be Canada—even if he hadn't admitted to it yet, not that Jack blamed his cautiousness. Jack understood cautiousness, even if he chose to be reckless a lot of the time. In fact, this whole situation was a strange mix of caution and recklessness, but he wasn't sure that he understood it. _If this is supposed to be Canada…_ "I'm not really one to talk, but… don't you think that this was reckless, kid?"

"What was?"

"This whole… escapade," Jack finished lamely, gesturing at the airplane. "It would have been so much easier and simpler and... peaceable, I guess… for you just to _call _or something. You're a teenager. You _have_ to have a cellphone. So why didn't you?"

Matthew sighed. "I did call. I called _nine times _between 7:00 AM this morning and 1:30 PM this afternoon, and then I called once more for good measure before my flight to San Antonio. Alfred always has his phone on, and he's always called back. Sometimes, his return calls were even ridiculous to the point of annoying. Today, though, he never called back, and…" He looked away, biting the inside of his cheek. He gripped his left arm with his right hand. "And it was disconcerting."

"He didn't call you back today," Jack repeated. "And you didn't try calling someone else to ask them about where he might be? Like the White House or one of your nation buddies?"

Matthew shook his head.

"Why not?"

Matthew looked down. "I…" His voice trailed off. He gripped his left arm harder.

"So you just up and decided to fly down to Texas by yourself? Without telling anyone?"

Matthew's head shot up. "No! I—I told my Prime Minister."

Jack raised an eyebrow. "And how did you explain this to him?"

"That I… I was going to leave to Alfred's house a day early," he finished quietly. "But I had already finished my paperwork, so—"

"So he just said, _'Okay, sure, I'll see you later'?"_ Jack finished incredulously.

"Look, I _think_ that I know what you're trying to imply, and _yes_, I know that this was extreme, given the risks," Matthew said, exasperated. He bit his lip. He bounced on his heels suddenly, restless for a second, and then, stilling just as quickly, he murmured, "I… I can't explain it. But I couldn't just sit there." He muttered, "I figured that I would just give Al the scolding of his life when I finally found him."

Jack sighed. This kid still wasn't making much sense to him, other than the fact that _something_ unexplainable had obviously worried him enough to push him into leaving his country without telling anyone (except his Prime Minster, if what Matthew had just recounted could be counted as an explanation to his leader) or even _asking_ anyone beforehand, and then to fly all that way—_Hold the phone._ Jack scrutinized the airplane, studying it from tip to tail again. It was worn from age, but if the kid could pull off what he had already described without questions… "Although it's old, your Cessna looks like it's in good condition. And from what I saw earlier, you flew it very well."

Matthew looked up, startled. "O-oh, thanks," he murmured.

"Can this plane last another trip, or do you need to refuel it? You'd probably have to fly back to Lackland and risk being found this time, though, unless you know where Alfred keeps fuel here." Jack glanced at his watch. _It's getting late. It's after 1830. That's not much time…_

Matthew looked uncertainly at the Cessna. "It would probably last another trip, but refueling would be better. Alfred keeps some here in the storage shed, so I won't have to go back to Lackland, but I—"

"Awesome!" Jack exclaimed, startling Matthew and the rest of SG-1, who all stared at him wide-eyed. "Sounds like a plan, then. Make sure to RSVP with General George Hammond before you arrive. He gets cranky without RSVPs, and you'll need the clearance codes before you can land." Jack reached into his pocket. "We'll trust you with Alfred's house since he apparently already trusts you to be here. You can lock it up before you leave, but we'll lock up the front gate to the property for you, since we're heading out that way. Here's the spare house key," Jack said, dropping it into Matthew's hand. "Valor gave it to us from an empty brick in one of the front pillars, but you probably already knew that it was there and can therefore put it back when you're done."

Jack turned around and started walking back toward the house. Sam, Daniel, and Teal'c stared at Jack in confusion. As though remembering something, Jack looked over his shoulder at Matthew, tilted his hat again, and said, "I'm sorry that we have to leave so soon, kid, but it was rather hard finding this property, and we need to find our way back to Lackland before our flight leaves without us tonight. In the meantime, you have a plane to prepare and a phone call to make, preferably to someone with a red phone on their desk. Bring the cat. You seem to know something about him that we don't." Matthew looked questioningly at Jack, but Jack just called out, a hand of farewell in the air, "Make sure to reach the red phone, kid. That's really important. Being what you are, you'll have a greater pull than we will, and you might not be able to get anywhere otherwise. Don't forget to get the clearance codes for the base or to make that RSVP, either, because those are also really important. And you never got any of those ideas from us—that's the _most_ important. See you in Colorado!"

With that, Jack walked away, SG-1 following uncertainly after him. Matthew watched them leave, frozen and wide-eyed. When the back door shut behind them, Matthew came out of the information stupor. He covered his face for a moment as he laughed quietly, and then he swapped the house key for his cell phone in the front pocket of his jeans. He flipped the Sanyo 5300 open and scrolled through his contacts in his Address Book until he found the one he was looking for: _U.S. President_.

"Thank you," Matthew whispered as he hit the Call button.

The phone rang on the other end for several seconds, and then there was a _click_ as the line connected. _"Hello?"_ the President answered warily.

"Hello, Mr. President? This is Matthew Williams. I'm sorry for disturbing you, but… may I please have a moment of your time?"

* * *

><p>Carter, Dr. Jackson, and Teal'c followed Colonel O'Neill through the house. O'Neill had opened up the oaken front door before Daniel finally asked, "I'm sorry, but <em>what <em>just happened back there?"

O'Neill gestured for his team to file out, and it wasn't until they had exited and Jack had closed the front door that he said, "Well, we didn't find Tony, so I figured that we could bring someone else home instead."

_"Excuse me, sir?"_

Jack shrugged at Carter. "What?"

Carter pointed back the way that they had come. "What happened to keeping Alfred's disappearance a _secret_?"

Jack waved it off. "C'mon, Carter. It'll be fine."

"Sir, I really don't think that this is a good idea," Carter persisted. "That White House official stressed that no one was supposed to find out about this."

_He did? _Jack thought. _ Oh, that must've been when I zoned out… Oops…_

"I'm on Sam's side," Daniel added.

Jack put his hands on his hips. "You, too, Daniel?" He turned to Teal'c. "What about you, T?"

Teal'c raised an eyebrow and looked away. "I am uncertain of the ramifications of your actions, O'Neill."

Jack huffed. "Fine, you all disagree, then." He pointed to the pathway leading toward the front gates with a wave. "What's done is done. If you'll follow me out, I'll explain on the way back." He wouldn't admit it out loud, but it gratifying that they followed him down the porch steps.

"We're on the way back now. Care to explain?" Daniel asked as soon as his feet left the porch step.

"As we're walking. Keep walking, Daniel," Jack replied. When he noted that SG-1 was following, he said,

"Look, Matthew knows that something's wrong with Alfred, even if he didn't explain how to us or how he somehow knew this from Valor. He said that he and Alfred were supposed to meet up tomorrow, but given that he became worried _today_ when Alfred wasn't answering his phone, this "twin-sense" was strong enough to make him run out of patience to wait for a phone call and instead fly _without permission and a day early _into his brother's country, at the risk of being called a spy or somebody saying that he was secretly declaring war, especially given that he had to enter a United States Air Force base for part of that. He told his Prime Minister that he was leaving, but he didn't speak to anyone else.

"Now, when he _didn't_ find Alfred here tonight, he'd probably start asking the questions and making the phone calls that he didn't make before coming. Chances are that no one would answer his questions, but he's a _national personification_, not a human. If the White House denied that Alfred was missing and his gut feeling _still_ said that that wasn't the truth, then he'd probably finally start asking around to _other_ national personifications for information. If he goes asking other national personifications about Alfred's whereabouts and, be it word or rumor, it gets around that there's the _possibility_ that Alfred is missing, _then_ we have the trouble that the President's worried about. Trust me—this was the best way to go to ensure the largest degree of quiet."

Carter nodded. "All right, that makes sense, sir," she admitted. "But what about the other nations? Surely, being a national personification, he needs to speak with them on at least a semi-frequent basis. Say that he gets permission to help search for Alfred. What's to say that none of them is going to be suspicious when both Alfred _and_ Matthew are suddenly non-contactable?"

"The kid just snuck onto a United States Air Force Base and impersonated his brother for part of it so that he could get his airplane to fly over here. Those that should have questioned him somehow didn't. Before that, his own Prime Minister didn't seem to particularly question him before he took off a day early to visit his brother. Somehow, I don't feel that we're going to have much trouble on that end," Jack said.

"What about General Hammond then? I don't think that he's going to be particularly happy about the risk of bringing another country onto the base," Daniel said. "And he'll be less happy if the President's unhappy about the phone call that you just told Matthew to make."

O'Neill shook his head and rested his hands on his hips. "I told him not to tell on us. How could they possibly find out?"

"Maybe when they deduce that we happened to be here on the same day that he happened to fly his Cessna out of Lackland over here?" Daniel pointed out.

Jack shook his head again. "Nah, we'll be fine. Remember, he doesn't want to get caught, either. He's not going to admit that he was here."

Daniel huffed and rolled his eyes. "Whatever, Jack." Then he sneezed and pulled out another tissue.

Jack raised an eyebrow. "You know, I'm really surprised that you're not more excited about meeting another country. I thought that you'd have been all over him the moment that I correctly guessed that he was Canada."

Daniel sniffed before putting the tissue back into his pocket. "I _am_ excited, Jack, and I have a feeling that there'll be time to ask him questions later, which I'm greatly looking forward to. I'm just not thrilled that you might have gotten us into trouble because of him—or have gotten _him_ in trouble because of _us_."

"We're not going to get in trouble, Daniel. _He's_ not even going to get into trouble," Jack reassured. "Besides, there were other reasons."

"And what kinds of reasons were those?" Daniel asked.

O'Neill sighed. "Look, we need all of the help that we can get, all right? Our nation was captured by one of two possible Goa'uld System Lords, but Alfred is not only America. To Matthew, he's his brother, and I have the feeling that he would have kept searching until he found either this brother or the truth, and right now, those are going hand in hand. Why not just cut to the chase and save all of us a lot of trouble? And maybe help Alfred quicker?"

"And what if he backs out after learning the stakes?"

O'Neill shook his head. "I don't think that he will."

"Or after learning about the SGC, if he gets permission to learn that much?"

O'Neill shook his head again. "He won't."

"And you just know this?" Daniel asked skeptically as they walked through the property's iron gates.

O'Neill nodded as SG-1 filed off of the property. For some reason, it had taken a lot less time to leave than to find it. "The kid's come this far, Daniel. He's tasted the sweet beer of rule-breaking in order to get here, and until he finds Alfred, I don't think that he's done drinking. He wants to find Alfred, so it's my gut feeling that he'll stay. Besides," Jack said, pulling the iron gates shut and locking them, "if he learns anything that he's not supposed to know, we'll just make him sign a Non-Disclosure Agreement, or something."

Daniel crossed his arms over his chest. "And it would be that easy and would actually work? He's a _nation_, Jack. He's not a human. We have enough trouble with just regular people."

Jack walked toward the rental car and unlocked the driver's side door. "You know, we have one of his citizens working on base, so actually, he might already know." He unlocked the rest of the car doors from the panel on the driver's side door.

Daniel opened the back right car door. "Who?"

"Rodney McKay, remember?"

Carter groaned. "Dammit, that jerk's back on base, too. I forgot that he was coming back from Russia today." She opened the left back door to the Volvo. "If I have to hear _one more comment_ about problems in my dialing program, I'm—" Her voice cut off as she shut the door with unnecessary force, but the tone of her voice carried through the tinted glass.

Jack, Daniel, and Teal'c looked at each other over the top of the Volvo. Teal'c opened the right front door, entered the car, sat down, and shut the door. He proceeded to set-up the GPS. Also choosing to ignore Carter's rambling, Jack shrugged at Daniel. "See, Daniel? If there's any problem with having a Canadian on base, we'll just point out that McKay's there, and it'll all be fine." He slid into the driver's seat as Daniel sat down in the back seat and closed the door. "Maybe we can even get him in by saying that he's coming to help McKay. You worry too much, Daniel."

"I honestly think that you don't worry enough."

O'Neill started the Volvo. "Really, don't worry about it, Daniel. It's all going to be fine. On the official records, _none_ of this ever happened, and if it any of it _does_ somehow wind up on official records—well, it's better to ask for forgiveness than permission, right?"

* * *

><p><span>AN: You're only lucky sometimes, Jack. :P But if you're _not_ lucky, then you can hope that your luck goes with Canada's phone call. The President's not in a good mood right now…

I'm sorry if I botched the Canadian ID card section. I looked up images on Google, but as I'm not Canadian, I just picked one of the images. (I did double-check that Canada uses Celsius, so unless Google lied to me, that's true.)

I'm not 100% happy with this chapter (although it's finally closer), but I decided that it was about as good as it was going to get. Besides, we're now over 50,000 words and 5,000 views. That is quite a milestone for me (my first of both!), so I'm really excited. Thank you so much for reading this far and for all of your support!

Time for fun facts! (I haven't done these in a while, so here are two!)

_Fun Fact #1:_ I quote from Wikia: "Stargate SG-1 is a Canadian-American sci-fi adventure." For those that don't know (I didn't until I did research for this fic), the vast majority of the TV series was filmed in Vancouver with the desert scenes in California. And after twelve chapters, I can finally bring in Canada, yay! (I've also been waiting to post this since Canada's dream, but since I didn't want to spoil the surprise (?) of Canada's involvement until he'd actually met SG-1, now you have it!)

_Fun Fact #2: _I've been waiting to make that "clone of Daniel" joke since this transformed into a novel. (Seriously, some of the fanart that I've seen of Matthew look like Daniel when he has his hair long!) Now Matthew can be someone else's clone for once. (According to Wiki, Michael Shanks, the actor who plays Daniel (an American), is actually Canadian, and since Matthew gets mistaken for America in the series… *shot for failed parallel joke*)

And that concludes _Part the Twelfth_! Likes, dislikes, questions, comments, concerns, or constructive criticism? Please share your thoughts in a review and tell me what you think so far! I love hearing from you!


	13. Part the Thirteenth

A/N: If I have any readers left, I apologize for the long wait, and I thank you for your patience.

_Soundtrack: _The soundtrack for De Luca's section (which starts off the chapter) is "Sound the Bugle," from _Spirit: Stallion of the Cimarron_.

Once again, please take any and all of Ba'al's medical claims with a grain of salt. I'm no doctor.

Disclaimer: I do not own _Hetalia Axis Powers_ or _Stargate SG-1_. They belong to their respective owners. I am making no money off of this fanfiction. It is for entertainment purposes only.

* * *

><p><span>Into the Wild Blue Yonder—Part the Thirteenth<span>

_Ba'al's Outpost_

He stilled.

Stillness was good.

The floor was cold.

Coldness was good.

Pain pounded within De Luca's skull, emanating and spreading with each pulse of his heart. Had he been poisoned this time? He couldn't remember. He tried to move, but his muscles trembled. His feverish body shivered. He lied on the floor, the icy metal cooling his burning cheek. He inhaled a shallow breath, cringing when he felt the burns along his sides and back flare.

He stared at the far metal wall with half-lidded eyes. That wall was the floor a second ago. How did it change so quickly?

He tried to look elsewhere from the wall-floor, but the light above him seared his eyes. The pounding in his head intensified and sent a wave of nausea from the pit of his stomach. He groaned, shutting his eyes as tightly as he could as he willed it all away. He shouldn't have moved.

He stilled.

Stillness was better.

The floor was cold.

* * *

><p>Lt. Colonel de Luca inhaled sharply as his eyes shot open, his flight-or-fight senses activated. He tried to move his limbs but couldn't. They were almost pinned to his sides. He frantically roved the prison with his eyes. He saw engraved golden metal two inches from his nose and illuminated by a white light and—De Luca exhaled slowly, forcing his racing heart to slow. He knew why his bearings were lost and he couldn't move.<p>

He was encased within the sarcophagus.

He had died again.

And this time, it hadn't been directly caused by Ba'al.

The gears quietly whirred, and the engraved golden lid split in the center to slowly move apart in opposite directions. De Luca had two seconds to admire the golden tiled ceiling of the world beyond before gloved hands roughly pulled him out of the sarcophagus. Two Jaffa soldiers half-dragged, half-carried him down the hall. De Luca would have struggled (out of principle, at the very least!) but he already knew where they were going, and his equilibrium hadn't returned after being resurrected. He wouldn't have gotten far. He had managed to escape the first time that he had woken up in the sarcophagus—and had been shot in the back for the trouble, and then he had woken up in the damn sarcophagus again. He didn't look forward to repeating the experience.

The Lt. Colonel thought that it had been one day so far. Had it? There was no way to keep track of the passage of time, as even his _watch_ had been taken from him. He considered keeping track of the time by his trips to the sarcophagus, but he wasn't sure if he was dying in regular intervals. If the repetitive usages of the sarcophagus didn't kill him, then the endless cycles without a way to keep track of time would kill him first. Or drive him insane, at the very least. It destroyed his mental sense of order.

He had already died three times. He mentally shot the seed of doubt that claimed that it was four.

De Luca's assumption of where they were going was proven correct when the Jaffa supporting him halted, and a door in front of them slid open. _Oh, look, here we are,_ he thought as he was dragged inside. _My lovely little torture chamber hosted by Ba'al's Jaffa soldiers. Did you miss me already?_ His hands were quickly chained up above his head. De Luca gave a fatigued experimental tug, but the thick chains rattled with the same degree of clinking and thickness as the last time, if softer.

The Jaffa took their time in selecting their weapon from the weapons cache. The first picked up what appeared to be some kind of golden rod. That one hadn't appeared before, and De Luca looked at it with narrowed eyes that hopefully hid the wary light within. He thought that he had seen or heard of it before, but he couldn't recall the name. He briefly considered asking before the rod began to hum.

De Luca wondered what had happened to the periodic stretches of being ignored that he remembered reading in Colonel O'Neill's report that described _his_ last stay with Ba'al. _Ba'al must have changed his rules of hotel service. When I get out of here, I'm leaving him a bad review. _

The Jaffa stepped around him, slowly circling him. His voice guttural, he asked, "What were you and your team doing on the planet, Tauri?"

De Luca huffed, feeling strangely like O'Neill as he said, "We were taking a tour."

The rod was thrust into the small of his back. Molten fire erupted from every pore. He screamed. The pain whited out. Black spots blotted his vision. He blinked slowly, gasping for air.

"What were your plans against our Lord Ba'al?"

De Luca wheezed, "We wanted to poison his morning coffee."

So it continued—another hour of pain, another hour filled with stretches of screams and sass that drifted into screams and then silence. De Luca took pride that his apparent indifference in his answers seemed to anger them, although his consciousness of this disappeared quickly. When the hour ended, he barely recognized when the chains were removed and he dropped to the floor before the same gloved hands dragged him back to his cell to either lie on the ground and partially recover, lie on the ground in delirium, or pass out and die and then wake up in the sarcophagus before the next round of interrogation would begin.

De Luca didn't struggle as he was dragged back to his cell. He didn't have the strength to.

He tumbled as the gravity shifted, grunting as his shoulder slammed into the metal. He rolled over with a groan.

He lay on the floor again. That golden tiled floor that used to be the wall, blissfully cold against his feverish body.

It was cold enough to allow him to close his eyes. It was almost dark enough to quell the images.

* * *

><p><em>De Luca, Witkowski and Rodriguez felt the deceleration of the Ha'tak. They looked expressionlessly at each other. Rodriguez paused mid-movement, the half-bound bandage clutched tightly in his right fingertips as he bandaged his left arm one-handed. The young Captain had finally remembered that he had an arm injury that he should take care of, and in any other situation, Witkowski or De Luca would have teased him for a lack of awareness of his own injuries. He appeared to be bandaging himself mechanically, but it was still a sign of life from the silent Hispanic.<em>

_They waited in silence as Rodriguez finished bandaging his arm. De Luca wished that they had weapons, their vests—anything—but the Jaffa guards had frisked them for anything resembling weaponry or equipment when they took away their M-5s. He couldn't believe that they even took his watch (it had been a gift from his fiancée, those bastards). He really wanted to blame it on SG-1, even though he knew that the Goa'uld System Lords would have wised up eventually about the need to frisk them. Assigning blame did nothing but offer self-satisfaction, and quite honestly, self-satisfaction gave him nothing tangible to work with because the fact remained that he had nothing resembling a weapon to defend himself and what was left of his team with._

_But he still had two seconds of pleasure blaming his lack of equipment on O'Neill._

_The guards came a few moments later. De Luca knew things were looking dim when Witkowski didn't attempt to crack a joke when the cell was opened. They were ordered to rise. De Luca and Rodriguez helped pull Witkowski up, and then De Luca slung one of the Major's arms over his shoulder to help him walk. Rodriguez stepped forward to help from the other side, but De Luca shook his head. He wanted someone with their hands free, and one of Rodriguez's arms was injured. _

_They were marched from their cell and through a hallway to a small, golden-tiled room. From there, a set of rings transported them to a different, equally golden-tiled room, and unfortunately for them, their Jaffa guards didn't miraculously disappear during the journey. Then they were marched into a separate hallway lined with a series of shorter hallways, each about the height of a regular Goa'uld doorway but ending after about twenty or twenty-five feet. Who would line up a series of dead-end hallways along a long hallway? That didn't make architectural—or useful—sense._

_One of the Jaffa soldiers pushed Rodriguez roughly down the first hallway. Rodriguez stumbled, shooting a dark look and a muffled curse at the guard before shuffling toward the end. He looked back in confusion and then froze when he realized that he was the only one walking to the back of the short hallway. He turned around and was taking his fourth step back toward the entrance when the Jaffa soldier pressed a button on the doorframe._

_Rodriguez's eyes widened as he slammed backward into the wall with a loud gasp, sounding as though he had had the air knocked out of him— _

—_and then he shakily rose, his feet planted firmly on the wall. De Luca gasped quietly. Rodriguez stared up at them with round eyes, his mouth slightly open as though he wanted to speak, but no words came._

_Witkowski whistled softly. "Gravity control," he murmured. "That looks escape-proof."_

"_I think that that's the idea," De Luca whispered as he nodded numbly. He was still staring at what should have been impossible when the pointed end of a staff weapon jabbed into his back, pushing him forward and causing both he and Witkowski to stumble._

"_Moving, moving," Witkowski grunted. De Luca heard the hiss that followed, though. The Major's side was still injured from being shot in the clearing. Every step was agonizing, but other than the hiss, he showed no outward signs of pain. _

_They walked a short distance to reach the next "hallway." De Luca knew what was coming, but he was still shocked when one of the Jaffa guards pulled Witkowski roughly from his shoulder, a staff weapon from another guard keeping him from following after his injured Major. Witkowski hissed curses as he was dragged and then dropped onto the floor. Having watched Rodriguez, he was able to position himself against the wall so that he didn't land as roughly when the gravity shifted._

_De Luca barely registered walking into his own hallway, other than he numbly stood against the wall so that he was laying on the new floor when the gravity shifted. Then he moved so that he was sitting on the new floor and leaning against the new wall._

_He pulled his legs up to his chest. He crossed his arms over his knees._

_There had been a moment when they had considered the possibility of escaping from the Ha'tak vessel, but he had quickly reminded Witkowski that they couldn't use the Stargate. Breaking out of the cell was useless if they couldn't escape from the moving mothership. Their only chance would be when the ship wasn't moving, but without knowing the layout of the ship or where the kid was to make sure that he made it back, too, there wasn't much hope of acting in time for it to make a difference. Especially if they had nothing with which to break out of the cell._

_He had been banking on planning an escape once they landed wherever they were going, after they were in their new cell._

_But he couldn't plan a team escape when he was no longer with his team._

_De Luca buried his face in his arms. How had their mission gone so horribly _wrong_?_

* * *

><p>Ba'al peered down at the unresponsive child lying on the table. He had taken much care that the child was moved as quickly and safely as possible to this new observational room. He didn't want his new subject to be damaged in any way. And Ba'al was positive that the boy wasn't damaged as he was moved.<p>

So there was no possible reason for why the child _wasn't_ healing as his genetic code claimed that he should.

Well, healing as the _computer_ claimed that he should be healing, given the gaping holes in his stomach and chest. But even microscopically, there was still trace amounts of healing being recorded by his computers. The child's body was fighting back death with every bit of strength that it had at its disposal, but Ba'al had been hard pressed to keep the threat of raging fever within a range safe for the Tauri-yet-not-Tauri child. The child's face was flushed and his body sweaty from the induced heat, but he wasn't yet in danger of damaging his mental faculties.

If his computers did not start making some sort of sense soon, then he would begin testing his own samples instead of relying on the computer's readings. He'd probably start with a blood sample. There was plenty of that available. It was even starting to leak on the table.

Ba'al sighed. He took a deep breath, and then he turned to the far wall again. He punched in the familiar sequence of buttons, and then he waited.

Once again, the screen lit up with the readings of the boy's healing progress and lack thereof. But it was so scattered. It was as if the boy's health was fluctuating between life and near-death at a second's notice.

This was not in his calculations. The spikes in his health made no sense. A body that was fighting to stay alive shouldn't _spike_—it would gradually either incline or decline, not fluctuate rapidly. It was like a puppet being jerked up and down by its puppeteer, but there were no strings attached to this child—well, no strings that he could _see_, at any rate.

But the boy was fighting. That much was certain. Ba'al would give him another day or two before he had to use a sarcophagus on him.

Given how wrong his _first_ estimation was of the boy's remaining natural life, he wasn't expecting any more than that.

With another sigh, Ba'al walked back over the table. He listened to the boy inhale and exhale in short, ragged gasps, the remains of his chest moving almost imperceptibly to the sound. Why had his condition worsened so much since they had arrived at his outpost? Had it occurred in the process of moving? Was it the environment in which he was keeping the boy? Was it distance from his natural environment? Was it some mineral that he was missing, or a bad reaction to one that Ba'al inadvertently introduced through his mist? Did he need natural light versus synthetic light, processing natural light through a Tauri-adapted photosynthesis? Was this an adverse reaction to the radiation emitted from the Matok blasts? Or was this simply the toll taken from the extent of the wounds that would have killed a normal Tauri on first impact, and this child had taken two?

Ba'al stared hard at the bloodied child on the table, his mind swimming with questions. At this rate, he was going to lose time questioning his other captives, if he was going to be guessing how long he needed to stay near the boy in order to observe him.

That mist obviously hadn't worked. If he was relying on causality, it would appear that it had made it worse. If he wasn't, then perhaps there was no correlation. Or it had even helped, and he merely couldn't see the results.

Ba'al just didn't have enough experimental information to make the best informed judgment.

He had even studied and tested the boy's jacket when he was still on the ship, and it was now lying on the shelf beneath the table, on hand in case he needed to examine it again. He found nothing that gave him many clues to the child. It was a jacket of unique leather style that, layered with wool for warmth, had traces of sweat, salt, and blood that proved that it was the boy's. The scorched Tauri numerals on the back of the jacket were of little importance to Ba'al, given that they were unreadable. The bottom edge of the numbers had been seared off with the second Matok blast, but Ba'al thought that it might have been the number 50, whatever that signified to the child or to the Tauri.

He had found a small, rectangular device that flipped open. There was a small panel of buttons with letters and numbers, and what he presumed to be a small computer screen was dark. He had put it aside in a small container of the boy's belongings, which weren't many. There was also a small leather pouch with small, rectangular pieces of plastic and pieces of paper that he pulled from one of the jacket pockets. One of the pieces of plastic held his image and had a name. _Alfred F. Jones._

Hm. At least Ba'al had a name for the child. He briefly wondered what the middle initial stood for and why it wasn't printed on the card, but then he dismissed it as inconsequential.

From an inner pocket, he found what appeared to be food wrappers that had traces of bread crumbs, salt, grease, and some sort of dried vinegar, salt, sugar and tomato mixture. If whatever occupied that wrapper was the boy's idea of food, there was no wonder that he was in the state that he was in. (Unless the food was what gave him the strength that he had heard of, and while Ba'al would test it if need be, that was still unlikely.)

It was time to start taking his observations and computer-processed results into his own experienced hands. He was becoming antsy from having merely watched for so long, even after interrogating his captives several times. He pressed a button at the end of the table, and a short _whirr_ sounded as the drawer slid outward. Ba'al reached down and pulled out a small syringe before the drawer automatically withdrew back into the table.

He would start with testing the boy's blood. Now that he thought about it, he hadn't had the computer test it for composition, only his genetic code.

* * *

><p><em>Cheyenne Mountain Air Force Base<em>

_Cheyenne Mountain, Colorado_

SG-3 met up in Lt. Colonel Reynold's office to discuss the new development. Lt. Colonel Reynolds still wasn't sure whether or not he believed what he had just learned, but this was so strange, it almost seemed true.

At least Captain Judson was healing nicely after the battle and would be able to leave the infirmary soon. The nurses were complaining that he had healed too quickly, but Judson wasn't complaining, and neither was Lt. Colonel Reynolds. Judson had always bounced back from injuries hardily. Lt. Colonel Reynolds had gone to see him late that morning, and although he had accidentally woken him up, the Captain was in good spirits and eager to get back in the field. He was even bugging every nurse who passed by for some hot sauce with his breakfast, and then he had complained loudly each time it was denied. Lt. Colonel Reynolds was certain that, if he didn't heal enough to be released soon, he would be driving the nurses insane trying to keep him in bed.

All of his team had signed the requisite Non-Disclosure forms, but that only made it feel more unreal. If he wasn't already partially prepared for unbelievable things due to being in the Stargate Program, he might not have given it a chance at all.

His nation was out there somewhere.

They'd rescue America. There was no doubt in his mind about that.

Lt. Colonel Reynolds leaned back in his chair, lacing his hands behind his neck and yawning. It was only 2000. He shouldn't be that tired. Maybe it was the exhaustion from the previous two days. He should have been better rested, but his biological clock woke him up at 0800. It should have woken him up at 0430, but that was too close to the time that he went to sleep, so he was grateful that his internal clock allowed him to sleep in a little. It was a functional amount of sleep, but after the training exercise he had scheduled right before all of the craziness happened (although the _one_ good thing that came of it was that they had already had all of their equipment on them when they were called), it wasn't much else.

His gaze drifted to the wall. He had tacked up a few small postcards for color, spots of color against the gray-painted walls. Most of them were Arizonan scenery. He missed his state, but he missed his home more. He was thankful that Arizona wasn't too far away from Colorado. It was a short trip away whenever he had an extended leave. He pitied those that lived in states on the other side of the country, like Maine. Or Alaska. They probably rarely saw home.

There was something that brought him more comfort than the postcards, though. Reynolds smiled quietly at the sight of the feathers hanging from the palm-sized dreamcatcher waving in the path of the air from the air condition vent in the ceiling. It was a gift from his girlfriend, and since he was prone to taking naps in his office over his paperwork, he figured it was better served than in his bedroom. (He already had a small one in there that was a gift from his younger sister. If he received any more as gifts, he wasn't sure where he was going to put them. At least he could put the small jar of pottery on his desk and store his pens in it, and whenever he traveled, it was small enough that he would pack it with his socks to keep it from shattering.)

But to be fair, he had received few bad dreams since he hung them up. Then again, that was the prayer of those that gave it to him. Even if it was mythical, it was the thought behind the giver that counted.

There was a soft knock at his door. Lt. Colonel Reynolds tilted his chair forward and picked his pen up again. He had not been distracted from his work until this moment; this moment was distracting him from his paperwork. "Come in," he called, flipping the pen point down at the last second and hovering it over the paper, as if he had been caught writing mid-word.

The door opened to reveal Major Peterson. He closed the door quietly behind him, and then he asked, "How long have you been pretending to work?"

Lt. Colonel Reynolds looked up. "Was I that obvious?"

"This time, sir. Any other time, it would have been a joke."

Albert laughed. He dropped the pen on his desk. "To be fair, I had been filling out paperwork for two hours straight beforehand. And I had not been distracted for more than five minutes before you knocked."

"All right, that's an acceptable excuse, sir." Peterson grinned.

Lt. Colonel Reynolds gestured to the chair to the side of his desk, but Peterson shook his head. "Nah, but thanks. What have you been doing today, sir?"

The Lt. Colonel gestured to the paperwork on his desk. "The usual, I guess," he said. "Although I also went to visit with Judson, and he's in good spirits. I'm afraid of the state of the nurses before he's healed, though."

Peterson laughed. "Yeah, Judson could never stay down for long. If he can't get out early, he's probably going to try to annoy them enough into letting him leave. Although I've never seen Frasier back down if she was determined to keep you, and she's been determined to keep him."

"Good point."

There was a moment of comfortable silence. Then Peterson laced his fingers and stretched his arms outwards. He dropped them to his side before looking away. Then he looked back to Lt. Colonel Reynolds. Lt. Colonel Reynolds gave him a questioning glance. "Do you have something on your mind, Major?"

Peterson loosely shrugged as he exhaled. "I don't really know. I thought I was going to ask you something, but then I stepped into your office and kind of forgot." He scratched the bridge of his nose in embarrassment. "I'm sorry, sir."

Lt. Colonel Reynolds shook his head. "Don't worry about it. It's been a trying two days. I'm sure it'll come back to you."

Peterson sighed. "I hope so. I didn't sleep well last night, although I should have been dead to the world until the meeting today. And then I've been forgetting things left and right." He shook his head. "Maybe I just need to go to bed early tonight."

Lt. Colonel Reynolds sighed wistfully. "We wish. SG-1 is scheduled to return tonight from Texas, and that means that we'll probably have another status meeting for who knows how long. Besides, so much is happening outside of the base right now that we'll be having more meetings than we know what to do with in order to keep up with it all. Not to mention that this base will probably be crawling with activity within the next day or two. We'll be up to necks trying to keep this from the NID, if they haven't heard about it already."

"No rest for the weary, huh?"

"No, but that's your fault. You broke the most important rule of the military when you refused the chair." **[1]**

Peterson groaned and covered his face with his left hand. "You see? It's happening already. I swear the entire world flipped yesterday, and I haven't righted it inside my mind yet. I haven't figured out how to flip it back."

"Start by sitting down, Peterson." Reynolds gestured toward the chair again, and this time, Peterson sank into it with a weary sigh.

There was another moment of silence in which Reynolds had actually picked up his pen and considered continuing his paperwork before Peterson asked quietly, "Do those things even work?"

"Which things?"

Peterson gestured to the dreamcatcher hanging on the wall. "Those things."

Lt. Colonel Reynolds shrugged. "I think so. Why? Did your night include nightmares?"

Peterson hesitated. He inhaled quickly, and then he nodded.

"What kind?"

Peterson paused again, and then he said slowly, "I'm not entirely sure. It was like… fire, and blood, and darkness, and evil, cackling laughter." He looked down in embarrassment. "If that makes any sense at all, sir."

Reynolds had wanted to snort at the last one, but he refrained. "Maybe it was just the stress of the past two days?" he suggested.

"I guess." Peterson nodded reluctantly. "But… I'm actually tempted to try it, after last night. Do you think that they work?"

"Me?" Lt. Colonel Reynolds studied the innocent woven leather, beads and feathers. "Again, I think so. But they were also gifts, and maybe I'm biased."

Peterson smiled tiredly, "Well, you have a right to be biased. You're actually Native American, aren't you?"

Lt. Colonel Reynolds stared unseeingly away from the desk. "I'm only part." He looked down.

"Do you know what tribe?"

Lt. Colonel Reynolds shook his head. He stretched his arms forward, but he still yawned deeply. "No. I don't even know if they're all actually Native American. My grandfather was Mexican. For all I know, there's Mesoamerican blood in there, too. Alicia wanted to try the whole ancestry search for us the last time that I was home, but the last time we had tried it, we couldn't find accurate records."

"Not going to succeed unless you try again, though. I've thought about trying it, but I never got around to it. Maybe I never will. Who knows, though, maybe you'll find something interesting." Peterson looked back up to the dreamcatcher, closing his eyes for a moment. Then he said, "But wouldn't it be a perfect world if everything just worked out so easily?"

* * *

><p><em>Fire. Burning. Screaming. Firelight. Pain. A stick in his arm. Laughter. Blood dripping—beeping?<em>

Lt. Colonel Reynolds awoke in a cold sweat, blinking blearily. _What…?_ The beeping persisted, and three seconds later, he realized it was his phone alarm. _When had…?_

He was leaning over his paperwork, his head resting on his crossed arms. He tentatively moved his fingers, and then he recoiled when he felt the sensation of a million ants crawling through his veins that told him that circulation had been cut off in his while he was asleep. He cringed as he yawned.

What was the last thing he remembered?

Peterson.

Reynolds blanched. If he had fallen asleep while talking to Major Peterson, he would never hear the end of it. The rest of SG-3 probably knew by now, too. _Well, it looks like I finally took falling asleep over my paperwork to a whole new level. Some well-kept Marine I am…_

The sensation finally fading from his forearms, Lt. Colonel Reynolds attempted to stretch forward until he groaned. His neck hurt. It must've come from falling asleep over his desk, and the combination of deep sleep and quick awakening would explain the headache. He was so looking forward to proper rest that night. If he got it.

Flashes of the nightmare resurfaced. He briefly turned to the dreamcatcher with a grimace. "Let's try a little harder next time, hm?"

Unsurprisingly, it didn't respond.

Well, at least it wasn't a prolonged nightmare. Perhaps it did part of its job. Just like he'd done part of his paperwork.

Lt. Colonel Reynolds slowly pushed himself out of his chair, stretching his arms over his head and arching his back. He gently stretched his neck, grimacing again. He was bringing a pillow with him at the next opportunity, he determined as he stepped away from the desk and opened his office door.

As he closed it behind him, he thought, _Then again, that's what I always promise after I fall asleep over my desk. Let's see if it happens this time._

* * *

><p><em>Lackland Air Force Base<em>

_San Antonio, Texas_

SG-1 checked the car in after entering the base, and then two captains volunteered to show them the way to the hanger. O'Neill was happy that he was able to keep a straight face, because their subject of conversation was uncanny.

"—and I'm telling _you_, this is too strange. I could have sworn that I was talking to Alfred earlier today," said Captain Martinez, "but it's his _twin's_ plane that's gone. Like, _poof_."

Captain Graham snorted. "Maybe the simple explanation to this is that he took his twin's plane by accident."

"Nuh-uh." Captain Martinez shook his head emphatically just as O'Neill got nervous. "He'd never make that mistake. They purposely sewed an American flag to the headrest of the pilot's chair of Alfred's plane and a Canadian flag to the headrest of Matthew's in order to differentiate them. He'd know as soon as he opened up that cockpit."

Captain Graham raised an eyebrow. "And how do _you_ know that?"

Captain Martinez shrugged. "I chat with them when they come around, and I'm usually the one who does the maintenance." He sighed wistfully. "I swear, with every new wrinkle I gain, those boys never get a day older."

Captain Graham laughed. "That's just because we're old fogeys now. Everyone's a youngster in comparison to us."

They laughed, and then Captain Martinez's face became serious again. "But I'm telling you, even for a surprise—or a _joke_—it don't make _sense_ for Alfred to have taken Matthew's plane. What if—"

The ground rose beneath their feet before falling, a loud _boom_ resounding in the distance. A couple of high-pitched screams were heard a few streets over, and then a couple more joined the din. A second later, all was still again.

Captain Martinez yelped, turning to Captain Graham to exclaim, "The _hell_ was that, Graham?!"

"Just a little earthquake, Martinez," Graham laughed. "And I mean _little_."

Captain Martinez shook his head in disbelief. "That was an _earthquake_? I thought that my stomach had fallen out of me! How was it _little_?"

Graham hummed as he smiled, and then he started walking calmly forward again. "I'd wager that was around a 3.0-level earthquake. The scale goes up to 10.0." He shrugged, but then his eyebrows furrowed. "The only strange part is that it's happening here. They're common in California—where I'm from—but I rarely have felt them here."

Captain Martinez shivered, appearing to try to shake it off before he continued in the direction toward the hanger. "May I _never_ feel it again."

"Excuse me," Daniel said, speaking up for the first time. "Why is the earthquake strange for Texas?"

Captain Martinez scoffed. "Cuz earthquakes ain't natural here, that's why." He sighed. "In all my time here—I'm from Corpus, but I stayed here after enlisting—I've only ever seen remnant storms from hurricanes, thunderstorms, threat of tornado, occasional sleet during the winter, and something _close_ to snow every couple of decades. We don't _get_ earthquakes." He grumbled as they walked off, "May I never feel another one…"

SG-1 followed behind him, shooting unsettled glances at each other.

* * *

><p><span>AN: This has grown into a monstrous _monstrosity_—I mean, um, we're in this for the long run?

You didn't get the aftermath of SG-1 and Canada's meeting yet. Don't worry, though, because it's coming. Hang on tight, because Day 2 is almost over! (Is it _seriously_ only Day 2? Wow…)

Try feeding Al a hamburger, Ba'al. Americans run on hamburgers! 8D

I recommend a small smooshie pillow, Reynolds. They're efficient for napping at your desk. (And there is no chance that the author speaks from experience, nope, no way.)

_Question of the Chapter:_ I have realized that I never posted a complete warnings list. I think that it's kind of late, but I've seen a lot of authors post them. Do y'all want one?

**[1]:** I don't know if this exists in other militaries, but there's a saying in the American military that goes, "Never stand if you can sit, never sit if you can lie down, and if you're lying down, then you might as well sleep." Basically, it means to rest whenever you can get it, because you're never sure when the next opportunity will come. Peterson "breaks" this rule because he chooses to stand rather than sit down. (So does this mean that Reynolds is actually "following" rules by sleeping? Hm…)

Thank you very, very much to all of my readers, especially those who have offered reviews, favorites, and alerts. Your kind words make my day, and I'm encouraged to continue this every time a notification pops into my inbox.

Till next time!


	14. Part the Fourteenth

Disclaimer: I do not own _Hetalia Axis Powers_ or _Stargate SG-1_. They belong to their respective owners. I am making no money off of this fanfiction. It is for entertainment purposes only.

* * *

><p><span>Into the Wild Blue Yonder—Part the Fourteenth<span>

_Earth_

_Stargate Command_

General Hammond's fist slammed on his office desk with a _bang_. _"_Do y'all have_ any idea_ of the trouble that y'all have caused? The President called me a little over three hours ago to say that he received a call from Canada, who just _happened_ to know that something was wrong with America. Now _how the hell_ could _Canada_ know that something happened to America _unless y'all told him_?"

SG-1 looked guiltily to the floor.

"Maybe he has a sixth sense, General Hammond? They are twins," Daniel attempted.

General Hammond snorted. "A twin psychic connection? Now _that's_ a convenient _deus ex machina_ if I've ever heard one. And how would _y'all_ know that they're twins?"

"Alfred said that he had a twin named Mattie who was the personification of Canada when we talked in the debriefing room," Jack added quickly.

"And how does that prove that he found out without y'all telling him?"

Jack inhaled deeply. _Remember, it didn't happen._ "With all due respect, General Hammond, how could we have told him? Someone else must've told him and blamed it on us. After all, we didn't go to Canada. We went to Texas."

"I know that y'all went to Texas, Colonel O'Neill. I sent y'all there _myself_," General Hammond huffed. "And we don't _think_ that y'all told him, we _know_ that y'all told him. Y'all are the only ones who _could've_ told him. The FBI traced Canada's call to Alfred's property in Texas—and it was made at a time _when y'all were still there_."

_Guess it happened after all._ Jack cursed silently. He hadn't considered that someone would trace Matthew's phone call. He usually considered potentialities like that. Maybe that was what Daniel had thought would happen but decided not to voice out loud just so he could say 'I told you so.' Given that Daniel was now looking at him pointedly, that appeared to be the case. Jack sent him a withered look, but Daniel just looked away. _Well, then._

Jack took a deep breath. _Time for a different angle._ "What _time_ was this call made, sir? Maybe he arrived and made the call _after_ we left. That property's huge, General Hammond. It took us two hours to sweep the property while it took us about half an hour for the house. Maybe we missed him?" he asked, and then kicked himself for making it a question.

"I _highly_ doubt that, Colonel O'Neill," General Hammond ground out. "Now I want a complete and true debriefing of what happened on that property, and I want it _now!_"

Jack exhaled slowly. "All right, sir. But for the record… if you're going to court-martial anyone, court-martial me. Matthew went to Texas because he was worried about his twin, and, so, I sort of told him to call the President if he wanted an answer."

General Hammond leaned backward, inhaling deeply. "You didn't tell him yourself that Alfred was missing?"

"I…" Jack paused. "Not exactly. I told him that he wouldn't find his brother if he looked."

"And that's not _the exact same thing_?" General Hammond exclaimed.

Jack shook his head. "Look, sir, I know that this is splitting hairs, and I'm sorry, but it needed to be done."

"And just _why_ is that?"

"Because when Matthew arrived, he was already worried about Alfred," Jack said. "He didn't tell us _why_ he was worried. He just said that he _knew_. So he risked going to Texas a day early to meet Alfred because Alfred wasn't answering his phone. And according to the rules that we were given and he reminded us of, that could have gotten him in a boatload of trouble if he was caught. He told us that he had called Alfred, like, ten times that day, or something, and the lack of response apparently freaked him out. What would have happened if we had lied and said that Alfred was coming later but there was no one there to meet him the following day?"

General Hammond took a deep breath. "And you didn't consider saying that Alfred was pulled away for governmental duty in which he couldn't answer phone calls?"

Jack praised any higher being that existed. "Actually, sir, I did try that. I presented a similar possibility to him, but Matthew just repeated that he knew that something was wrong. If anything, the chance for doubt gave him greater certainty." He paused, and then said, "Now, sir, if _that's_ a worried national personification when he's working on his own, what would have happened after he received no answers from Washington? Regardless of the suggestion, he was bound to call them next, and they wouldn't have told him squat because, like I told him, it's classified. And after Washington told him that nothing had happened but he _still _felt that something was wrong? He's a national personification, sir. He would have started making phone calls to _other_ national personifications to see if _they_ had heard anything, and when some of _those_ personifications became concerned because _they_ hadn't heard anything and couldn't learn anything and Alfred still didn't answer his damn phone, then the news really _would_ have reached the world." He paused. He threw in, "And then the buck would have eventually stopped here. It's Murphy's Law, sir."

General Hammond inhaled and exhaled deeply. He said slowly, "All right, Colonel O'Neill. That is a fair assessment." He nodded to himself, and then he said, "I'm still unhappy with this situation, but believe it or not, the President agrees with you."

O'Neill stared at General Hammond. "If he agrees, then why were you just yelling at us?" _Yelling at _me_?_

"_Why?"_ General Hammond snorted. "Because we needed the truth. Because there's currently a national personification on his way to one of the most top-secret American security facilities guarding one of the most top-secret classified pieces of technology that America has access to, and that national personification is not our own. Because the leader of that national personification, to my knowledge, _does not know_ that his national personification is coming here, and will in all probability raise hell when he finds out, because, I can assure you, said national personification is not somehow on the Air Force payroll like McKay somehow is and therefore has no reason to be here. And _let us_ _not forget_ that you still defied your orders, Colonel O'Neill. Be happy that you're _not_ being court-martialed. For now." He left hanging, _Since you'll probably do something later in which I will _wish_ that I could court martial you if we all had the time to devote to it._

Colonel O'Neill exhaled deeply. _All right, fine. I did deserve something for all of that, but wow, that was long. _"So what's happening to Matthew?" he asked.

"The President has given him permission to come here," General Hammond answered. "Apparently, the President's permission carries the same weight as Alfred's, but given that the President knows about the existence of national personifications, that shouldn't be surprising. And as per the President's orders, I have given Mr. Williams the clearance codes. He'll be arriving in a little more than an hour."

"That's fast."

"It is." General Hammond nodded. "Now, is there anything else that I should know about?"

"Well, we didn't find Tony," Daniel said.

"I about gathered as much when he neither arrived with you nor appeared on base."

"We think that he may have fixed his ship," Jack clarified. "Other than that, however, we don't know where he is."

General Hammond sat down in his chair and straightened some papers on his desk. "Actually, I have news on that. It turns out that Thor picked him up as promised."

"Thor picked him up?" Sam asked.

General Hammond nodded. "Yes. Sergeant Harriman reached Thor, and he said that they're currently taking care of him and his ship. Supposedly, his language receptors were damaged in the crash and his consciousness needed to be downloaded into a new body before they could allow him to return as a liaison."

"His language receptors?" Daniel echoed.

General Hammond shrugged. "That's what they told us. I don't know what that means."

"But he's returning as an Asgard liaison?" Sam asked excitedly.

"So we were told," General Hammond said, nodding.

Jack asked, "When did you all get through to the Asgard?"

"Right before y'all returned. In fact, most of our breakthroughs happened about four hours ago," General Hammond said.

"What else have we missed, sir?" Sam asked.

"Well, in addition to reaching the Asgard, we finally got messages through to the Tok'ra, and they promised to send down representatives so that we could share information on this new System Lord. They promised that your father and Selmak would be among them."

Carter smiled. "That sounds great, sir."

General Hammond nodded, and then he pulled out a sheet of paper and passed it over to SG-1. "Now, I have more news. For starters, the results of the lab are finally in. The DNA samples were compared with the samples that Washington sent over, and they match up. Alfred was in that clearing, so now we know with the greatest likelihood that, if SG-21 was indeed captured by one of the System Lords from that battle, he's with them."

Jack exhaled deeply. There went his last hope. "Have they confirmed anything else, sir?"

"The shreds of fabric were from our uniforms, and the weapons did belong to SG-21. There is no doubt now that SG-21 was in that clearing. It's everything that we had already figured but now is official," General Hammond said.

Carter picked up a separate paper from the general's desk. "What's this, sir?"

General Hammond glanced at it, and then, upon recognition, he answered, "Those are the preliminary results for Captain Hartwood's autopsy, but it's nothing that we didn't already know or will cause concern. They've promised that they will have the full results as soon as they possibly can so that his body can be released to his family for burial."

"All right, sir." Carter put the paper down on the general's desk.

The subject dropped, General Hammond asked, "Was there anything else about the property that we should know about before I continue?"

Jack shook his head. "We didn't look thoroughly through the house, but I didn't notice anything suspicious. I don't know about anyone else." Sam, Daniel, and Teal'c shook their heads. "That'll be no, then. Other than an abnormal amount of cacti around his fence and some spiders the size of dinner plates, there was only the landing strip."

General Hammond chuckled. "The landing strip surprises me, but the cacti don't. They're everywhere in Texas."

"And the _spiders_?" Jack drawled out.

"They're everywhere, too, Colonel."

"But _dinner plates_, sir?"

"Shall I recite to you the adage that everything is bigger in Texas, Colonel O'Neill?"

Jack sighed. "No, thank you, sir. I guess I should have naturally presumed that that extended to the wildlife. And spiders, apparently." But _still_…

General Hammond rolled his eyes. "Just be happy that you didn't stay long enough to meet the mosquitoes after a storm that's left a lot of standing water. Now, is there anything else?"

"Valor," Daniel said.

"Valor?"

"Alfred's cat, sir," Carter said.

"Alfred left a _cat_ on the property?" General Hammond asked incredulously.

Carter nodded. "Yes, sir. At first, he just appeared incredibly intelligent. I mean, cats are already very intelligent, but this one…" Carter shook her head. "As improbable as this sounds, this one seemed to understand _exactly_ what we were saying. When we announced our presence, he led us to the house. When we asked him for a spare key, he gave us a spare key. When we asked him for where Tony was, he kept looking to where Tony's ship used to be, although we didn't understand at the time because, well, it was gone. But…"

"But what, Major?"

"Sir, this defies the laws of physics, but…" Carter shook her head again.

"It appears that this cat bears a physical connection to Alfred," Teal'c said.

"A physical connection to Alfred?" General Hammond echoed. "We have _another_ one claiming physic powers?"

Daniel nodded. "We don't know at what point this occurred, but Valor started to act fatigued and then appeared to be either afraid or in pain at some point after we and then Matthew arrived."

"And there's no reason to believe that this was caused by either of your arrivals?" General Hammond asked.

Daniel shook his head. "I don't think so. Matthew seemed to be really concerned by it. In fact, it was Valor's condition that seemed to erase any remaining doubt that something was wrong with Alfred."

General Hammond inhaled deeply. "And where is this cat now?"

"We left him with Matthew," Jack said. "There would have been no way to get him onto Lackland secretly, and Valor appeared to trust Matthew with himself. The kid should be bringing the cat with him. At least, I asked him to."

General Hammond shook his head. "There was no mentioning of a connection with a cat in the dossier."

"Maybe the President doesn't know or chose not to share it," Daniel posited. "They gave us minimal information, after all."

General Hammond sighed. "That is possible, but I believe that that is something that I'll be asking the President about later," General Hammond determined. "Anything else?"

There was a moment of silence, and then Daniel said slowly, "Well, um, there was the earthquake."

"A _what_?" the general asked incredulously.

"An earthquake, sir," Carter repeated. "We experienced a small earthquake in San Antonio before flying back to base. One of the local captains said that it was about 3.0."

General Hammond shook his head. "That's impossible. San Antonio doesn't _get_ earthquakes—"

Someone knocked briskly on the door. "Come in," General Hammond called.

McKay peeked around the doorframe. "I have the results of the Stargate diagnostic."

"Good, come in," General Hammond said, waving him inside.

McKay looked around the office, spotting SG-1 immediately. "Oh, hello."

Jack noted with pleasure that McKay attempted and failed to hide a weak grimace. "Hello, McKay," he said. "When did you get back, pray tell?"

"This afternoon," McKay responded. "I'm happy to be back from Siberia. I won't miss it or the food, and I won't miss the snow. My snow tolerance decreased during my time in Area 51, and it didn't return in Russia. Or maybe I spent too much time away in a desert away from winter wonderlands before being sent to one," he said with a pointed glace at General Hammond, but he refrained from further insinuations upon seeing the stern but expectant look on the general's face. He cleared his throat. "Anyway, I have the results from my diagnostic."

"Diagnostic?" Carter asked.

"Yeah. Sergeant Harriman couldn't pinpoint the problem with the Stargate, so when I got back, General Hammond asked me to utilize my expertise, so I reviewed it." He dropped a folder on Hammond's desk. "It was outside interference."

General Hammond looked up sharply. "What kind of outside interference?" He picked up the folder and opened it, studying a roughly-drawn diagram.

"Was this Gate Feedback Protocol?" Carter asked.

McKay shook his head. "This was affecting the Stargate, but it wasn't Gate Feedback Protocol. This was affecting the dialing and connection capabilities _in addition to_ the Stargate's programming. It was _obviously_ an external device."

"And it wasn't simply some sort of virus?" Carter persisted.

"No, it an external device."

General Hammond held up a hand to withhold further argument from Major Carter, asking instead, "Why do you say that, McKay?"

"There's no evidence that there was tampering from our end or any permanent damage within the system that would need to be cleaned up. In fact, there was nothing wrong with the program or the Stargate immediately following the Stargate's connection to P9X-534. I checked and double-checked your still deficient program for that," McKay said. Carter bristled but said nothing. McKay gave her a surprised glance at her silence, and he continued on, "This was a remote device of a previously unidentified signature in the database."

"Is that possible?" General Hammond asked. "This was affecting our gate's ability to connect with other Stargates."

McKay shook his head, reaffirming, "No, there were only connection difficulties with P9X-534. This device was very selective, hindering only specific functions between specific Stargates and leaving them unaffected once the program, if you will, has been turned off."

General Hammond turned to Carter. "Is this possible?"

"Well, sir, we have run into devices that affect multiple Stargates before. The best example is probably when Colonel O'Neill and Teal'c experienced the same day for several weeks due to a device that placed several worlds under a time loop by their Stargate connection," Carter explained. **[1]**

O'Neill groaned. "May I never go through that again."

"I concur," Teal'c said.

"So you believe that this was outside interference by an unknown technology that has the ability to selectively overpower specific Stargates of an indeterminate number," General Hammond rephrased.

McKay shook his head emphatically. "This device didn't overpower the Stargate—it _prevented_ it from utilizing specific functions. The energy signatures left behind show that it was just enough power to affect the current commands without erasing them, leaving the Stargate unable to call out or call in for a set time, even holding the Stargate open for longer than it normally can. It's a lock on our dialing capability. It has the ability to affect a Stargate's outgoing and incoming capabilities or whichever Stargates attempt to reach a certain Stargate. Possibly both. As I said, it didn't affect the current dialing program nor was there problems connecting with other worlds, once the original connection from the device was broken. It's either that our Stargate is selectively dysfunctional, or there's an outside device that can temporarily control a Stargate remotely."

"So, basically, our phone just got hacked," Sam summarized tightly.

McKay nodded. "You could say that." He looked distantly and grinned. "I'd _love_ to get a look at the device that did it…"

General Hammond nodded, dropping the folder back down on his desk with a heavy sigh. "All right. Thank you, McKay. That'll be all."

McKay nodded and quickly left the room, closing the door behind him.

"Sir, would you like me to look over the findings?" Carter asked.

General Hammond passed her the folder. "I would like a third opinion, if you are able. Interference through an external device is both a relief but troubling. Who knows what could be done with such a device if _that_ theory is true."

Carter nodded.

General Hammond took a deep breath, and then he said, "Well, there's nothing more that can be done on that matter in the meantime, so let's continue." He rubbed his temples wearily, and then, looking up, he said, "I'm putting our Canadian guest under McKay's care when he arrives. He'll probably feel the most comfortable with one of his own citizens. I'd have liked to put him under yours, but I don't want to draw too much attention to him in case the NID catches whiff of something. Honestly, there's been too much activity for them to _not_ know that something has happened, but the least amount of eyes we have here, the better."

"I don't know, sir. I'm a little concerned about McKay scarring the kid, even if he _is_ one of the kid's own citizens. You know good ol' McKay," O'Neill jibed.

The general snorted. "Actually, what you just saw was a rather subdued McKay, or at least one that _was_ when he arrived."

"It that _possible_?"

Hammond nodded. "Believe it or not," he drawled. "Personally, I think that he stepped on the wrong person's toes while he was in Russia, and they decided to ensure that it didn't happen again."

Jack mused, "I hope I get the chance to thank the one who sent him to obedience school. I hope that it was Colonel Chekov. I wouldn't mind shaking his hand for his service to this base."

General Hammond chuckled. "We may yet find out. But perhaps we'll find out first whether or not their training was successful." He pulled out a set of folders from on top of his desk. "In the further meantime, I have tasks for you all. This is the information that we have gathered so far. It's not much, but it's a starting point. If nothing else, it might provide some ideas for research, Dr. Jackson."

Daniel nodded, taking the folder with his name on the tab and then passing the stack to Sam, who took hers and passed it down to O'Neill, who passed the last to Teal'c. Daniel said, "I'll get on it right away, sir."

"Good," General Hammond said. "I would like this joint meeting to be as organized as possible, even though, given its size, it likely won't be."

"I'll pull up extra chairs for the table?" O'Neill offered. "This sounds like it's going to be a big party in the Debriefing Room."

General Hammond snorted. "Thank you, Colonel, but we might need an alternate meeting room instead."

"So? We'll probably need extra chairs _anyway_."

Daniel raised his hand. "Actually, about that, I have a question. Why are we having one large meeting instead of simply communicating with each ally one at a time?"

General Hammond sighed. "Well, there's going to be a _lot_ of information sharing among all of our guests, and we felt that sharing it all in one go was the better option."

"I'm sorry, sir—_guests_?" Carter interjected.

Jack paused midway through opening his folder. "Who _else_ is coming?"

* * *

><p><span>AN: In the words of _Star Trek_'s Pavel Chekov: "Guess who's coming to dinner." ;)

And there's _Part the Fourteenth_! It's mostly exposition, but we're moving again, and now you've seen some of the promised aftermath. Canada is scheduled to return (soon), but his rooming arrangements might prove to be interesting...

This would have been an extremely long chapter with a horrendously long set of notes, but since I have split the chapter, you have been spared (from the long set of notes, since perhaps there would not have been complaints if there had been a longer chapter).

**[1]:** Please see "Window of Opportunity."

A very big thank you for all of your alerts, favorites, and for your very lovely reviews. You have no idea how much they mean to me and encourage me to continue this. I also offer a thank you to _mh_ for the Spanish corrections. Spanish is my second language, so I appreciate all of the friendly help that I can get. The translation has been fixed.

Liked, disliked, concerns, questions, constructive criticism? Please drop by a review and share your thoughts! Thank you for reading! :)


	15. Part the Fifteenth

A/N: This would be a shorter chapter if not for the almost two pages' worth of Author's Notes at the end. I apologize most profusely.

Disclaimer: I do not own _Hetalia Axis Powers_ or _Stargate SG-1_. They belong to their respective owners. I am making no money off of this fanfiction. It is for entertainment purposes only.

* * *

><p><span>Into the Wild Blue Yonder—Part the Fifteenth<span>

Colonel Albert Reynolds was still shaking off the remnants of his dream when he heard his name called. He looked up and down the hall, uncertain if he had actually heard someone call out to him. He was about to write it off as an unfortunate aftereffect of the dream when he saw a familiar black beret with a tri-colored flash. "Colonel Novikov," Colonel Reynolds greeted the Russian officer standing outside of the infirmary. When he realized that the Russian colonel had just exited the infirmary, he asked, "How is Major Kamenev doing?"

"He is as is expected," Colonel Andrei Novikov said. "He was very injured during the exercise."

Colonel Reynolds nodded. It hadn't been a pretty sight, but thankfully, they had reached the infirmary in time. Even if Dr. Frasier and her nurses had given them all dirty looks that they really didn't deserve. "Has he been given a schedule?"

"Schedule?"

"For how much longer he will probably be in the infirmary," Colonel Reynolds clarified.

"Ah." Colonel Novikov shook his head. "No. They want to wait and see how he progresses before they say more."

"I guess that makes sense. He was badly injured."

Silence descended, and then Novikov looked away. Reynolds anticipated the conclusion of their brief conversation and had almost excused himself when Novikov continued softly, "We are fortunate. Kamenev is alive, as are the two members of your team who were injured. Others were not so lucky yesterday."

Colonel Reynolds looked down for a moment, remembering how many casualties were in the infirmary at the moment. After the attack, Judson had almost been sent to recover in his quarters to free up bed space for the more severely injured. Peterson had been re-patched up and sent on his way, given that the injuries from the attack were superficial, and his worst wound had occurred prior to the attack. His arm had been a sight when they had returned, and they had been positive that Dr. Frasier would detain him. The only reason Peterson had joined the fight after being injured during the exercise was that he had escaped the infirmary with SG-3 when the alarms began blaring and before the nurses could catch him. Reynolds was glad that his decision to overlook Peterson's injury wouldn't weigh on his conscience. "You're right. They weren't."

Novikov added, "SG-4 is intact, but SG-20 lost half of their members."

Reynolds had never heard the Russian officer speak so much, and he was surprised that Novikov was being so forward with him. He couldn't remember sharing half as many words before the exercise.

Once Novikov's words sank in, Reynolds exhaled deeply. SG-20 lost half of their team? He couldn't imagine losing so many, only the fear thereof when he remembered the panic that he had felt for Peterson and Johnson during the exercise, then the fear that he had felt when he saw Judson get hit and collapse during the assault. His blood had only continued moving when he heard Judson screaming profanities as he continued firing at the invading Jaffa as Peterson dragged him out of the room. If he was screaming at the enemy, then he was alive. He murmured, "I am sorry for their loss."

Novikov stared at Reynolds for a moment, his eyebrows furrowed slightly as though he were taken aback by Reynolds' response, and then he shook his head, but the movement was so minute that Reynolds wasn't sure if he had seen it. He appeared as though he were about to say something, when his mouth opened slightly, but then he closed it, the words never escaping into the air.

The resulting silence broke when Novikov cleared his throat quietly and, recomposing himself, he rested his hands behind his back and then asked briskly, "Have you thought about how we will resolve the exercise, Colonel Reynolds?"

"The exercise?" Reynolds was lost in previous conjecture until he processed the question, and then he straightened as well, resting his hands on his hips. "Oh, that, no." He shook his head. "I haven't, Colonel Novikov. For the moment, I'm fresh out of ideas." He gestured toward the Russian officer. "Did you have any?"

Novikov shook his head. "I have none."

"Well, maybe something will come to us later," Colonel Reynolds said, offering a shrug. "Shall we take the night to think it over? In the meantime, I'll ask my team for if they have any ideas, and you can do the same, if you'd like."

Colonel Novikov nodded his assent, and then he walked away, his footsteps echoing in the empty hallway.

Colonel Reynolds nodded and then continued toward the Debriefing Room, glad that he had set his alarm early. The thought of his alarm reminded him afresh about the dream that his alarm had interrupted, and he began to mentally prepare himself for being the target of his team's jokes. Major Peterson was likely regaling them all with the news about now.

* * *

><p>Colonel Reynolds walked up to Lt. Johnson and Lt. Bosco, noting an obvious lack of teasing upon his approach and a significant lack of the one who should have been behind it. "Where's Peterson?" he asked, carefully keeping his voice from sounding cautious or wary.<p>

Lt. Johnson shrugged. "I don't know. He usually arrives right after me."

"I haven't seen him since this afternoon's meeting and then checking up on Captain Judson in the infirmary," Lt. Bosco proffered. His crossed his arms over his chest, and then he turned to Johnson. "How long should we wait before we're worried?"

Johnson glanced upward in thought. He rocked on the balls of his feet once. "I'm not sure. He's punctual most of the time. I'd say, let's give him a few more minutes."

Colonel Reynolds nodded. "I agree," he said, checking his watch. "Peterson has another minute before the meeting, anyway." He looked down at the beige floor of the Debriefing Room. If he hadn't already noted its light color before now, he would become quite familiar with its hue from the many meetings they would have until his nation was rescued. He wished that they could have fewer meetings and more rescue missions, but until they had a direction, there was nothing else to do. He was positive that he would reach the end of his patience soon. Rocking on the balls of his feet once, he exhaled, finally allowing his worry to the surface.

His nation was missing, and then after speaking of weird dreams with Peterson, he went and had one himself. _Did I just dream of Peterson in my office? That was a really strange topic to dream about. Maybe I should talk to Alicia about a new dreamcatcher. This one's ready for retirement already. Or maybe _I_ need to think about retirement, but I don't think I've been in the military long enough for retirement. Maybe I should put in for a transfer. You know, end on a good note…? No, what am I thinking. I can't leave yet. Not now, at least…_

SG-1 walked in at that moment, but Colonel Reynolds—and the remaining members of SG-3—heard its Colonel before they saw him.

"Sir, I really must disagree with you. _Why_ are they coming here?" O'Neill exclaimed, following into the Debriefing Room after General Hammond. He stopped behind the chair to the right of the general and threw his arms outward in an exaggerated gesture. "I mean, _when_ have we _ever_ played nicely together when we have to cooperate in large numbers?"

General Hammond pulled out his chair and sat down with a huff. "The President has already given his consent, Colonel O'Neill. That's _all_ I have to say on the matter."

"_But, sir—"_

O'Neill fell silent at the general's pointed glare.

Colonel Reynolds approached his chair to the left of General Hammond cautiously. "General Hammond, sir? What's happened?"

O'Neill pulled out his chair and sat down with a huff. "Oh, _nothing_ much, Colonel Reynolds. Just that the _Russians_ are coming." He dropped his folder onto his desk with a frustrated _clack_. "I can't decide if I'd prefer to have them or the NID," he muttered.

Colonel Reynolds looked at General Hammond in a mix of surprise and confusion. "I presume that you mean that more teams are arriving, then. When was this decided?"

General Hammond leaned forward with a deep exhalation. "You are partially right, Colonel Reynolds, and it was decided this afternoon. The Russians are concerned about the safety of the Stargate."

"Well, it is technically theirs," Daniel offered in a mutter, attempting to play peacemaker.

"Which we have because we lost ours only thanks to Anubis' stupid Ancient device!" O'Neill exclaimed. He turned back to General Hammond. "Didn't they get the plans for the X-302 hyperdrive ship, a boatload of money, and a Russian SGC team in return for renting their Gate to us? What _more_ do they want?"

General Hammond inhaled deeply, eyeing O'Neill with a narrowed gaze. After deciding that it wouldn't be worth it to kick his second-in-command out of the room, he ignored the argumentative baiting in favor of addressing the situation, saying, "Their first option was for us to return the Stargate—"

"—_not_ gonna happen—"

"—which, given the fact that we still have our national personification and a missing team lost through that Gate, the President denied. Not that it would have done them much good to have it returned, though, since they have teams out on missions, and an immediate transfer of the Stargate could jeopardize an emergency return," General Hammond finished, undaunted by Colonel O'Neill's interruption. "Consequently, their second option was, if they didn't collect it, that they send more men to defend it. That was reasonable, given the circumstances, so the President agreed."

"How is this _reasonable_?" Colonel O'Neill pressed.

"I'm actually more surprised that they _agreed_ to go with the second option," Daniel pointed out.

General Hammond nodded, saying, "Me, too. But it's for the best—"

"How is this '_for the best'_?" Colonel O'Neill exclaimed, using air quotes around General Hammond's words.

General Hammond huffed. Maybe he _would_ throw O'Neill out before the end of the meeting. "For the _last time_, Colonel, I'm telling you to calm down."

O'Neill threw his hands in their air. "_Calm down?_ How can I calm down? Our nation is missing and Russia has just invited itself onto our base! That's _more_ than enough of a cause for me to react like this. We may have managed to work together a few times, but we haven't exactly been _friends_ while doing it. And did I mention that they're pulling this on us now that _our national personification is missing?_ I wouldn't be surprised if it's because of it!"

General Hammond took a deep breath and said, "Colonel O'Neill, I don't like the possibility of outside interference on this base _any more_ than you do—_especially_ given the circumstances that you unnecessarily reminded us about—but you need to remember that this base was under attack less than forty-eight hours ago, and while I would prefer our own men, some reinforcement is a good thing."

"But the _Russians_, sir?"

General Hammond huffed again. "It's not as if they _weren't_ _already here_. And didn't you just say that you were hoping to find one in particular for, I quote, 'his service to this base'? Chances are, he's probably coming."

Colonel O'Neill paused mid-rebuttal, deflating slightly, a reaction which General Hammond was relieved to note. "Well, yes," he drawled instead, "but I was _kinda_ hoping to meet that _one_ person in the distant future under nicer circumstances, not _their whole bleeding army_."

The general snorted. "_As if _I—or the President, for that matter—would allow their entire army on this base. Even if they were in fact sending Air Force or Naval Infantry teams rather than Army." He paused, and then continued, "Think about it for _one_ moment, Colonel: they _can't_ move that many people without causing a large disturbance, and a disturbance on _both_ sides of the ocean, for that matter. We _both_ want to keep the situation low-key, given the nature of this program. There is no disagreement there, of _that_ I can assure you. But they're sending more people to supplement the losses suffered to their teams—and our base, in the meantime—with at least another person acting as a diplomatic liaison during our information exchange."

_Please let Chekov still be the liaison_, O'Neill begged silently. _He's about the only one that I've met that I can actually stand._

"And we have two of their teams here right now, sir, with three more off-world," Carter interjected, speaking as though O'Neill wasn't already privy to that.

"One of the teams on base lost two soldiers during the assault, and the other team had one member almost critically injured during an exercise immediately preceding it," Colonel Reynolds added.

Now _that_ was news. When General Hammond nodded in affirmation of Reynolds's input, Colonel O'Neill turned to the Marine. "And how would _you_ know that?"

"Our training exercise that was interrupted by the assault was a joint-exercise with SG-4, Colonel Novikov's team, which was the team with one injured member."

O'Neill hadn't heard of that, but now it made sense why Reynolds had that information. He had probably heard it directly from the Russian officer in charge of the team that participated in the joint-exercise. "And you couldn't convince any of _ours_ to join you?"

"The Chair Force teams that we asked claimed that they were too 'busy,' whereas Novikov's team overheard our question and volunteered. How could we say no?"

O'Neill would have retorted, but then he reminded himself that Reynolds had not specified _which_ teams they had asked before the Russians volunteered. Maybe they had asked some of the Research teams. The Jarheads probably had never bothered to learn which teams had what kind of missions, since they only participated in missions that required combat back-up. He settled for a huff. "At least console me by saying that you won." **[1]**

Reynolds hesitated, drawling, "Well…"

"You _lost?_" O'Neill exclaimed, slamming the palms of his hands on the table before gesturing to the three men in front of him. "You all are the _Marines_, aren't you?!"

"We didn't lose!" Colonel Reynolds returned hotly. "We just, ah, well…" He covered his mouth with his fist and cleared his throat, and then he said, "It was a draw."

O'Neill looked from Reynolds to Johnson to Bosco. Colonel Reynolds had regained his composure, and Lt. Johnson stared down at the table with a slight flush on his cheeks. He wondered why Lt. Bosco appeared to be waiting expectantly until he realized that the kid hadn't been a part of the joint-exercise, given the fact that O'Neill didn't remember seeing him when they appeared to help rescue Alfred during the assault. "At least tell me that it was a draw won with dignity, Reynolds."

O'Neill wondered if concern might be the viable response when Bosco started sniggering. He asked, careful to keep his tone even, "Care to tell us what's so funny, Bosco?"

Bosco laughed. "Well, you see, sir—"

"_Don't you dare, Bosco,"_ Johnson warned with a narrowed gaze.

Bosco shrugged, mirthful. "Aw, c'mon, Johnson. It's _funny_."

"Only because Captain Judson and Major Peterson enjoyed retelling _every single detail_ of it this afternoon in the infirmary. I'm surprised that the _entire base_ hadn't heard it by now. You know that the nurses are all gossips." Johnson huffed and leaned backward in his chair, throwing his arms in the air. "You know what? Fine. Whatever." He crossed his arms over his chest. "Say _whatever_ you want. I don't care."

Bosco eyed Johnson warily for a moment, but when the First Lieutenant remained silent and, for all intents and purposes, appeared to have washed his hands of Bosco's future actions, he declared purposely, "Guess that means I can talk about it." Johnson did not react, so Bosco turned briefly to Reynolds. When Reynolds responded similarly, Bosco turned back to O'Neill, who was still waiting.

The First Lieutenant grinned. "You see, sir, after much debate, both teams decided that they would attempt a form of the 'capture the flag' game, except the rules of the exercise were to obtain and keep hold of the flag after having set up a base. The exercise was held here in the mountains, and no one was allowed to hurt the local wildlife since no one wanted to be arrested on poaching charges. So the rules were to shoot only to scare the wildlife away. Not that anyone could have actually hunted or done much damage to the wildlife, given that our only weapons for the exercise were supposed to be blanks," Bosco explained verbosely.

"Did SG-4 consist of members of the Russian Air Force or Naval Infantry?" Jack asked.

Bosco's excited expression morphed into one of thoughtfulness. "Russian Air Force," he declared after a few seconds.

Colonel O'Neill shook his head in a mock defeated gesture. "And there goes my theory that engaging in field exercises for the fun of it must simply be a Marine thing." **[2]**

"And staying indoors in the air condition all day must be an Air Force thing," Bosco retorted as he rolled his eyes. His excitement bounced back a second later as he continued his story, "Anyway, both teams were gung-ho to win since the stakes were both national pride and dinner at one of the nicer restaurants in town of the winning team's choosing. That was another reason I was initially disappointed to not have joined in, but since I was allowed to help set the flags up, I didn't complain too much. Although apparently, the exercise was delayed for a while because apparently there had been a huge debate from the Russian side about when the meal was gonna be, which I didn't really get, because you just go out for lunch or dinner, right?" **[3]**

Daniel leaned forward, beginning with, "Well, you see—" but Bosco didn't hear him, continuing with, "But, anyway, the exercise was going well for the first day, almost day and a half."

Jack attempted to give Daniel a sympathetic look, but it must have appeared too faked because Daniel returned a withering look that almost made Jack grin.

Bosco continued heedlessly. "The bases were established and both teams found and obtained their flags. They just needed to acquire the other team's flag while not losing their own."

"This is when something happened," Teal'c stated preemptively. O'Neill shot the Jaffa a surprised look for being interested in the story when he just cared about the results.

Bosco nodded. "You got it! SG-3 was all packed up and ready to leave when they heard some yelling in the distance. Just in case there actually was danger, they approached cautiously with Johnson in the rear with the flag. They hurried when they heard more noise and shots, and they discovered the Russians duking it out with a couple of black bears—"

"Grizzly bears, Bosco," Johnson interjected shortly, turning his gaze toward Bosco for the first time. "They were _grizzly bears_." If he was about to ridiculed, he would _at least_ be ridiculed with the right information, dammit!

Bosco turned to Johnson firmly. "There are no grizzly bears in Colorado, Johnson."

Johnson met his gaze determinedly, as though they had had this conversation before. "Bosco, I repeat: you weren't there, I know what I saw, and Colonel Reynolds, Captain Judson and Major Peterson agreed with me. They were large brown bears, so therefore, we concluded that they were _grizzlies_."

"And _none_ of you actually live in this state like me, Johnson, so _I_ repeat: there are _no_ _grizzly bears_ in Colorado. There haven't been for _years_. What you all encountered must have therefore been _black bears_."

"But they were _brown_."

"And black bears can be _brown_, Annapolis grad. They vary in color."

"Wait." O'Neill cut the air with his hands. This wasn't a good sign, if he had to break up arguments before their large meeting had even taken place. Especially since he was being the peacemaker, when he was supposed to have been the angry one. Almost regretting asking about the joint-exercise, he consoled himself with that he only wanted the story over with faster so that he could hear the results so that they could progress with the meeting. "Bosco, that doesn't even make sense."

"What, that he's a Marine from the Naval Academy? He just—"

"No, before that," O'Neill interjected. He didn't care about the last part. "How can the bear be brown if it's called a _black bear?_"

Carter inputted, "Well, sir, the phenotypical make-up doesn't necessarily have to reflect the name given based on a genotypical history that gave a phenotypically-based name but rather on the particular genotype of the—"

"_Carter," _O'Neill warned.

"Black bears can be brown, sir," Carter translated. "If their genetic code determines such to show physically."

"_Thank you,"_ he stressed, deciding to let the reason for the answer slide. He had no more patience for this side topic. Turning back to the bickering Marines, O'Neill said, "Carter has spoken, so Bosco will now finish his story—preferably quickly—so that we can return to more pressing issues."

Johnson huffed and appeared to remove himself from the conversation again while never leaving his chair, a feat which O'Neill was quite impressed by. Bosco continued animatedly, "Anyway, imagine the odds! We've, like, _never_ had trouble with the local black bear populations whenever we've trained in the Rockies, and I'm from a couple of hours away from here, and my family and I have never had problems with them, but there they were." He gestured grandly before continuing, "One of the Russians was pretty injured—he'd probably been jumped first or was the one to run into them—and obviously the blanks weren't doing anything. So SG-3 jumped in to help. With the combined forces, they managed to scare the bears away and then help the injured one. Major Peterson got a nasty gash on his arm—those claws were _huge_—and another one of the Russians was a little banged up, but other than that, everyone was okay. Until they remembered Johnson. Apparently, he screamed like a girl!" Turning to Major Carter, he quickly added, "Um, no offense, ma'am."

Before Carter could reply, Johnson's face flushed and he exclaimed, "If _you'd_ just been jumped by two angry bears, Bosco, you'd have freaked out, too! And I did _not_ scream like a girl!"

"Were these the same bears that had just been chased away?" Daniel asked.

Johnson covered his face with his right hand and didn't answer.

Bosco nodded. "Yeah. Johnson apparently hadn't emptied his pack correctly before the exercise—and I can assure you that he _wasn't_ trying to cheat, because he's done that before on missions, training or not, and pulled out the _funniest_ stuff after complaining that his pack shouldn't have been so heavy when, lo and behold, he didn't pack correctly _yet again_—and, on the first night, found that he had a few bullets in his pack. He dug them out during SG-3's charge, but after he attempted to fire from a distance, he'd discovered that he had some trouble with his scope. Obviously, he didn't want to accidentally shoot anyone—that was the whole point of setting up the exercise with _blanks_—so he tried to fix it. But the bears ran away while he was fixing it, and he didn't realize this until he had adjusted it and saw them. Then he screamed."

Johnson reinstated his presence in the conversation with an angry guttural sound. "I had finally fixed it and set about finding them again when my scope went dark, my face felt warm, I heard heavy breathing, and when I looked up, they were right in front of me, about to either rip or bite my face off," Johnson grumbled. "How would _you_ have reacted?"

"Probably not much better," Daniel agreed.

"So how does this end in a _draw_?" O'Neill persisted.

"I'm getting there, sir," Bosco insisted enthusiastically. "You see—"

Johnson interrupted again, saying in a clipped tone, "I lost my gun when they swiped at me, and given that I was dodging two, I didn't have time to retrieve it." He sighed deeply before continuing, "In all honesty, I was lucky that I didn't end up like the guy on the Russian team. I only got a few scratches, and those were thankfully not from claws, like Major Peterson's. Actually, Major Peterson was pretty lucky, too, because in comparison to the Russian guy, his scratches weren't that bad."

He paused for a moment, collecting his thoughts. Then he continued, "But after I lost my gun, the bears chased me half-way down the mountain, thankfully stopping before I reached everyone. I had the flag in the outermost pocket of my pack, and one of the times that they swiped at me shredded through that pocket and ruined our flag. The Russians had apparently lost theirs at some point during the bear assault. The rules of the exercise were that the flag needed to be held and remain intact, not just held onto. So both teams lost," Johnson concluded grudgingly. "We were discussing our options—we had already lost our national pride, but we had still bet that meal, you know?—after we brought back the injured to the infirmary, but the base was attacked before we came to a consensus." He finished in a mutter as he stared down at the table, "So the current status of that exercise is a draw. And I blame Nature."

Silence.

"Wow," was all that O'Neill managed to get out. "That was…"

"Crazy," finished Reynolds. "And I was _there_."

"But still a draw," Johnson grumbled. "Damn bears…"

There was another period of silence, and then General Hammond looked around the room for the first time, counting heads. "Where is Major Peterson?"

Colonel Reynolds looked around the room. _Huh, Peterson's still not here._ He turned back to General Hammond and shrugged. "I don't know, sir. He appears to have never turned up. Maybe he went back to the infirmary?"

General Hammond sighed. "Well, whenever he deigns to show himself, fill him in."

"I will, sir," Colonel Reynolds said, nodding.

Daniel raised his hand. "Not to digress, but returning to the original topic, I have a question."

"Yes, Dr. Jackson?" General Hammond asked.

"Did Russia have any other stipulations?"

"I think what Daniel is wondering is whether or not we will have to give back Alaska," Carter added.

"_Give back?_ We _bought_ that fair and square when _they_ put it up for sale, and we have the receipt... somewhere. How could they demand it back?" Jack asked incredulously.

"_Watch,"_ Daniel countered.

General Hammond shook his head. "Actually, their stipulation is that they receive the next Stargate that is found in return for any aid given during this present circumstance. And if there is a DHD, the DHD is theirs."

Jack raised an eyebrow. Although he was tempted to say that they should find the next damn Stargate themselves, considering that the SGC was currently using their Stargate, he grudgingly admitted—to himself only—that wanting to operate separately again was reasonable. At least more reasonable than other things that he had heard that night, but he wasn't following that train of thought in that moment, other than it would admittedly be nice to not have to share anymore. But the DHD, too, even if—? Nope, not following that train of thought. "That's it, sir?"

General Hammond exhaled deeply. "Supposedly," he said.

"I'm sorry, General, but even I'm hesitant to believe that there isn't another catch somewhere," Major Carter added.

"I share in the suspicions of Major Carter," Teal'c said.

"I do, too," General Hammond said, nodding. "But there we are."

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><p><span>AN: And now we know who's coming to dinner! :D (But the fact that Pavel Chekov is Russian happened to be a coincidence~)

Here are the horrendously long notes that you were not spared this time because they were moved from last chapter to this one in concordance with the transition of the exercise narrative. (May they never need to be this long again…)

You may have noticed that I didn't include any patronymic names for my Russians. The Stargate Wikia doesn't seem to have any listed, so I'm following their lead. Also, most of my Russians from here on out will be OCs. I apologize to those whom this news bothers, but in my defense, when I dug around on the Wikia, there were almost no living Russian SGC soldiers to be had. With the exception of two, they all seem to have died gruesome deaths. O.o

My research on bears to double-check the potentiality for a bear attack led me to find that, apparently, bears are both a symbol and a slur for Russians. Consequently, I wish to say that that there was neither a hidden message nor a hidden slur, and I apologize if this was thought so at any point in the chapter. I picked what I thought was the most dangerous animal in the Rocky Mountains to run into without a real weapon (since blanks are just compressed air and, unless it's close to you, deals very little to no damage).

On that note, apparently, you're not supposed to immediately run from a bear but rather back away slowly. That wasn't really an option for the teams, however, so that obviously didn't happen.

On the note of footnotes:

**[1]:** I explained "Chair Force" in a previous chapter, but "Jarhead" is a nickname for Marines. It comes from the "buzz cuts" (i.e. a haircut so short that the person almost or actually is bald) that are part of a Marine's uniform regulations.

**[2]: **From my research, the Russian Naval Infantry is the equivalent of the U.S. Marine Corps.

**[3]:** I learned this Russian saying from _EgyptianRatScrew_'s story _Flowers of Red, White, and Blue_: "Eat breakfast yourself, share dinner with a friend, but give supper to your enemy." Research tells me that the saying refers to caloric intake, so that breakfast is the heaviest meal and dinner is the lightest. In America, breakfast is rarely heavy unless you're eating later in the morning, typically combining breakfast and lunch into a brunch. The heaviest meal then tends to be dinner. Lunch is the midday meal and dinner is the evening meal in America, and whereas supper can connote a later evening/night meal, the terms dinner and supper tend to be used interchangeably. Hence confusion on the part of Bosco.

I have discovered that I made an error in Reynolds' rank. He's a Colonel at this point of the series, not a Major, so I have given him his promotion to Lt. Colonel. (Anyone with the rank of Lt. Colonel or Colonel is addressed as Colonel, and the same happens for a 2nd Lt. and 1st Lt. being addressed as Lieutenant.) And since I promoted Reynolds, I promoted Peterson (from Captain to Major) and Judson (from 1st Lt. to Captain) as well. Johnson and Bosco have maintained their ranks. I have reposted six chapters to match the promotions, but if you happen to reread past chapters and discover that I missed one (or in a future chapter!), please let me know. Thanks!

Show of hands: Who would like Day Two to end so that we can get moving with the plot? *all hands raise, including the author* Really? Awesome! Motion adjourned to end Day Two! :D (It should be over next chapter. If it's not, then _I_ might go nuts...)

Liked? Disliked? Questions? Comments? Concerns? Concrit? Please leave your thoughts in a review! :) Thank you so much for all of your support, because I appreciate every bit of it. If for whatever reason you've come this far and decided that this isn't the story for you anymore, then thank you for having read this far, and I hope that you find what you're looking for elsewhere!

If you have read through this monstrous set of author's notes, you're amazing and deserve a cookie. *offers cookies* And in addition to a cookie (or two!), for the readers who made it this far—an omake for you! :)

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><p>Daniel caught Jack marking something down on his folder. "What are you doing?"<p>

"Oh, I'm leaving a note for myself," Jack replied nonchalantly as he continued writing. "I must _not_ forget to tell McKay that the Russians are coming. I want to see the look on his face when I tell him that Russia missed him _so much_ that she followed him home to ask if she could keep him. To which we shall proudly tell her, 'Yes! You may have him, but please, remember just one thing—we _won't_ take him back if you ask for a refund.'"


	16. Part the Sixteenth

A/N: **WE'RE OVER 9000!** 8D *clears throat* Ahem, 9000 hits, that is. :) As a gift (for both your support and your patience), you have chapter the length of which you most likely will not see again (it's my longest chapter to date). And Day Two finally ends (another gift for us all).

Several of you (mostly anonymous, so I couldn't reply to you using FF's response feature) have been wondering about which of the other nations will play a part in future chapters. For those of you sharing in this question… you have a hint at the very end of this chapter. ;)

Disclaimer: I do not own _Hetalia Axis Powers_ or _Stargate SG-1_. They belong to their respective owners. I am making no money off of this fanfiction. It is for entertainment purposes only.

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><p><span>Into the Wild Blue Yonder—Part the Sixteenth<span>

The stars flickered tranquilly as Matthew gently maneuvered the Cessna through the dark sky. It saddened him when he couldn't see the heavens from the ground due to city lights, but up in the air, above the clouds, every pinprick of light was a tiny, sparkling jewel. The skies were almost as clear in Colorado as they were on the Texas plains, but despite Alfred's insistence, Matthew would never quite adapt to that level of heat (just like a tiny part of Alfred would always spurn the cold, to Matthew's dismay). Alongside the clear sight of stars, it was gratifying to feel the chilled air seeping in the cockpit and to view real snow on the peaks of the distant Rocky Mountains. It relaxed him, freezing the moment in a still image, almost succeeding in distracting him from where he had come and where he was going.

Looking at the dark mountains on the horizon, Matthew couldn't see it (and almost couldn't believe it) but, according to his coordinates, he had nearly arrived at Cheyenne Mountain Air Force Base. For a moment in Texas, when he had called the President, he had been afraid that he would be shipped back to Ottawa for being in the United States illegally. Alfred's boss _had_ considered it… but he didn't do it. He had heard Matthew out, even though Matthew could feel his distraction, given the circumstances.

Matthew exhaled slowly. He knew that he was walking into _something_, but he wasn't sure what. The President had only warned him that, if he came, he would be acting alone—as Matthew Williams. He had been promised protection, but his Prime Minister still had no idea what he was actually doing or where he really was. (And while the President didn't _say_ anything about Matthew not telling his Prime Minister about the change of plans or destination, Matthew had a feeling that if he reported back to his boss, whatever quasi-deal was being formed would be revoked before he had finished his phone call. And then what would he do? Who would believe him if he said that something had happened to Alfred just because he had had a bad feeling after a bad dream? He was lucky that that U.S. Air Force officer had believed him, because Matthew was starting to doubt himself.)

But what did acting only as "Matthew Williams" _mean?_ Was he being asked to give up his national authority and enter as a civilian? That half-way made sense—given the fact that he seemed to be going to a place that he might never have seen except in these circumstances—but the President hadn't been very explicit over the phone, naturally, and…

Why did it feel like he walking into something bigger than he understood? That he might be asked to give something that he might not be able to part from?

He bit his lower lip. It was true that he had agreed to come as Matthew Williams rather than as Canada—he wouldn't have had the backing of Canada until tomorrow under Alfred's original permission, anyway, which was for the twins' trip that had had his Prime Minister's backing—but now that he was under the President's permission, Alfred's authority was overridden, and without his Prime Minister's knowledge and backing, he really was just entering as 'Matthew Williams'…

That thought process made sense, finally. But was he _right_? Was he really going to be here as Matthew, not as Canada? If that was true, then it was like he had left half of himself behind in Texas.

No, that wasn't true. He had left that half in Ottawa, when he first came without permission. What if—

All right, he _was_ nervous. His thoughts were moving about in circles, like the propellers on his airplane. (Except his propellers were actually moving him forward… That was terrible analogy…) There was _something_ that the President hadn't shared but only hinted toward, and he didn't like the answer that he was drawing on his own. Or maybe he was nervous because he didn't understand what this was apparently necessary for, other than it was something about 'balance,' or whatever that meant.

Matthew shook his head to clear the thoughts away. Going over something twice was enough. He also been promised that, if he came to this military installation for answers and he didn't want to stay after he had entered, he would be free to leave—unharmed—and he was currently trusting in that promise. Besides, since he had Valor, what could they really do?

No. He didn't like the direction of that thought, either, and he shouldn't think that way. Valor was sick, and that made him worry more for Alfred. He glanced over to the passenger seat, where the beige and black cat carrier rested and where various papers had been placed between it and the back of the seat. He checked to make sure the night sky was clear of possible air traffic, and then he leaned over, collecting all but one of the papers (with one hand, since the other was still on the steering) and tucking them into his backpack. Peeking into the small, carbon fiber-laced cat carrier, through the cross-hatched steel-enforced metal bars, he murmured, "How are you doing, Valor?"

Valor opened his blue eyes and blinked blearily from where he lay on his tri-colored pet pillow. He didn't move. Any other day, Valor would have been clawing frantically at the door, sticking his large white paws through the bars and attempting to bend the metal to open the gate while complaining quite loudly and emphatically that he wanted to be released _now_. Not to mention that it usually took a time and a half to get Valor _into_ the carrier to begin with, given the cat's flailing and hissing in protest to being stuffed within the small space. (Well, the small dog carrier was really only small for Valor.) Alfred was the only one usually who could (read: who had the strength and bravery and didn't fear a possible loss of limb) wrestle the clawing cat into the carrier.

Tonight, Valor was silent. He had refused to eat before they left Texas, had allowed Matthew to put him into the cat carrier without complaint, and he had not uttered _one_ sound since the trip began. He had merely lain in the carrier and, for all appearances, slept.

It was unnerving—like Alfred's silence.

Matthew shook his head to clear that thought. He refused to dwell on that. He was moving forward. He would find out what had happened to his brother, and Valor was going to respond to him so that he knew that the cat was stable. He checked the sky one more time, and then reached over and stuck his right index finger through the bar, gently stroking the soft white fur on Valor's forehead. "We're almost there, Valor," he murmured.

Valor blinked sleepily at him again, his bright blue eyes appearing almost cloudy in the darkness. He mewed quietly, to Matthew's relief, before he closed his eyes again. Burying his nose between his paws, Valor puffed his fur out with a shiver. Matthew hoped that it was from the cold air within the plane.

"_You have entered the air space of the United States Air Force Base at Cheyenne Mountain,"_ a voice sounded suddenly into his ears._ "Would you please identify yourself?"_

Matthew reached upward and adjusted his headset quickly, speaking into the microphone near his mouth, "Hello, this is Matthew Williams. I was scheduled to land at Cheyenne Mountain Air Force Base at 0020, but I have arrived early. May I please have permission to land?"

The static crackled, then:_ "Do you have the clearance codes, Mr. Williams?"_

_This was why I left one paper out! Where did it go?!_ "My codes are," he began, searching with his free hand until he found it hanging halfway off of the opposite end of the carrier, about to fall onto the floor. So much for leaving it ready. Pulling it close quickly, he read them out loud.

Background static._ "Your clearance has been confirmed, Mr. Williams. You have permission to land."_

Matthew exhaled gratefully as he dropped the paper back between the carrier and the passenger seat's cushion. He continued flying forward, searching the distant landscape. When he could see the runway lights and the moving lights of the marshaller, he angled the steering downward, and the Cessna dipped forward in a slow arc. The ground approached faster and faster until the wheels landed firmly with only the slightest bump, and then the Cessna taxied forward on the short runway. After a few seconds, the plane halted. Matthew reached forward to the control panel and flipped the switch, cutting off the engines. The propellers slowly stilled.

Matthew removed his headset and placed it on the seat beside him. Leaning back against the leather pilot's chair, he inhaled deeply, and then he looked out the window when he saw movement from the corner of his eye. An airman was approaching the door and other airmen were approaching the plane, mostly likely to check it before moving it off of the runway. Matthew pushed open the Cessna's pilot door and then, carefully picking up the carrier, exited the plane.

Matthew set Valor's carrier on the tarmac and reached back into the cockpit to pull out his backpack, but the airman who had approached the door shook his head. "Excuse me, sir. May I please see your identification?" he asked.

Matthew nodded, pulling out his wallet and opening the bi-fold. The airman checked his ID. "Everything appears in order, sir." The airman handed Matthew's leather wallet back to him and then gestured toward the distant hanger doors, saying, "Please come this way, Mr. Williams. I have been instructed to escort you inside to General Hammond." Matthew was about to ask about his backpack, but the airman answered preemptively, "Your luggage will be brought inside for you, sir."

The airman led him inside the compound and out of the cold, mountainous night. Not that Matthew had minded the temperature. The chilly air was nice, especially since the Rocky Mountain range was one of the few things that he and Alfred shared between them, after their border.

He followed the airman inside the mountain, where he passed through another security checkpoint. The guard found no problem with his ID card, but he stared at Valor. When the airman explained that Matthew had the clearance to bring the cat inside, Matthew would have sworn that the guard was _glaring_ at the carrier. The airman ushered Matthew and Valor past the checkpoint.

As they waited for the elevator, out of earshot of the guard, the airman muttered, "Sorry, Masterson doesn't like animals. He even had a problem with Schrödinger. I mean, I'm a dog person, but even _I_ didn't have a problem with him." Matthew was about to ask what he meant, but the elevator door opened and they stepped inside, traveling down into the lower levels of the compound. Matthew wasn't sure how deep they were descending into the mountain.** [1]**

Matthew was relieved that Valor was all right with the scenery changes, given that for all intents and purposes, he appeared to have continued sleeping. At least, Valor appeared to be sleeping until the elevator stopped moving with a jolt, and he raised his head and blinked. Matthew murmured comfortingly but was silenced when Valor's eyes widened and his ears perked, one of them turning back. He sniffed warily. As the elevator doors opened, he looked out and mewed plaintively, the sound echoing eerily down the empty hallway, almost like a quiet wail.

The airman looked down edgily at the carrier, out of which Valor looked with widened eyes before settling down pensively again, an ear twitching once. "I thought that he was asleep."

"So did I, eh," Matthew said, fighting a shiver as he looked down in a mixture of relief and concern. Valor blinked at Matthew, mewed quietly again (which Matthew would have sworn almost sounded mournful), closed his eyes, and buried his face in his paws.

Matthew furrowed his eyebrows as he fought back a second shiver.

The elevator doors began to close, and the airman stepped forward quickly and caught them. Matthew stepped out quickly with a murmured apology that the airman waved off. Stepping past him, the airman led Matthew down a tunnel-like hallway. As they passed around a corner, the airman pointed toward a doorway and said, "General Hammond is waiting for you over here, Mr. Williams."

Matthew murmured his thanks as they approached the doorway. Voices drifted out from the room.

"—share in the suspicions of Major Carter."

"I do, too, but there we are."

Matthew didn't recognize either of the voices, and he didn't have a chance to identify them. The second speaker, a bald middle-aged man in an U.S. Air Force officer's uniform, began to say, "Now, there is one more—"

The airman stepped forward, rapped his knuckles on the doorway, and said, "General Hammond, sir, I have brought your visitor and the cat as requested."

General Hammond, who Matthew confirmed was the second speaker, said, "Thank you, Sergeant. That'll be all." The airman nodded and departed, leaving Matthew standing alone in the doorway to what appeared to be a meeting room. The meeting room had a ceiling of medium height, beige carpet, and a long, rounded table around which sat several people in U.S. Air Force and U.S. Marine uniforms. Matthew didn't recognize anyone in the Marine uniforms on the left side of the table, but his eyes widened when, on the right, he recognized the Air Force soldiers whom he had met on Alfred's property.

Colonel O'Neill gave him a small wave and opened his mouth to speak, but a Marine spoke up instead, "For a second, I'd thought that was Peterson."

"No shoot, Bosco. That isn't Peterson," the Marine to his left said. Matthew very quickly read his nametag, which said Johnson.

Colonel O'Neill snorted. "Not unless Peterson decided to change his nationality and grow his hair out on top of skipping the meeting." He beckoned for Matthew to move forward. "Come on in, Matthew. The infirmary promises that the Jarheads have had all of their shots, even though it took much work to give them to them."

Matthew wasn't sure what that meant, so he was about to laugh neutrally when the Marine who had been silent until that point—whose last name Matthew read was Reynolds—snorted and said, "And the Chair Force promises to not engage in any necessary work if they can avoid it, meaning _we'll_ carry you to the infirmary if you suddenly collapse from Rabies."

Matthew was still uncertain what to say, so he settled on the neutral laugh and walked toward the table.

O'Neill turned to Reynolds and exclaimed a mock offended protest of _"Well_."

General Hammond rolled his eyes at the officers before him and, cutting off Reynold's retort, stood up and said, "I am afraid that I will have to cut this meeting a little short," he said. "SG-3, you are dismissed."

Bosco opened his mouth to speak up in protest, but Reynolds held up a hand. "Understood, General. When would you like to finish our meeting?"

"Not tonight, Colonel Reynolds," General Hammond replied. "And to accommodate all of the new events, we'll forego the meeting. I'll forward the necessary information to you in the morning, and you can brief SG-3."

Colonel Reynolds nodded and stood. The rest of the group—which was presumably the SG-3 that the general was referring to—followed his lead. Matthew had the sneaking suspicion that he should apologize for interrupting the meeting, but the words didn't come. The Marines began to file out of the door when Johnson, his eyes flicking upward briefly to Matthew's, paused. His eyebrows furrowed, and he was about to say something when his commanding officer behind him nudged him through the doorway. Matthew thought he caught the words _"looked just like him"_ before the door closed, but then another spoke, causing him to turn.

"Now that my officers have begun introductions haphazardly, please allow me to start over," the general said, extending his hand to Matthew. "I am General George Hammond, and I'm in charge of the U.S. Air Force base here on Cheyenne Mountain. You are Mr. Matthew Williams, I presume?"

Matthew nodded. "Yes, sir," he said quietly, shaking the offered hand with his right hand, grateful that he was holding Valor with his left.

General Hammond nodded once before releasing Matthew's hand from his firm grip. "Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Williams. You arrived a little earlier than I had expected, but that's not a problem." Gesturing to the table in front of them, as he asked, "Would you like to take a seat?"

Matthew nodded again and moved to sit down at the end of the table, but he realized that there was no more room on the side where the Air Force soldiers sat. He sat down on the side that the Marines had vacated, a little nervous that there were so many people in the room and that he was the only person on his side (albeit plus Valor).

"Now, I believe that you have already met SG-1," General Hammond said, gesturing to the soldiers across from Matthew.

"Who?" Colonel O'Neill said, feigning innocence, but the General gave him a stern look, so the colonel put up his hands and stressed, "Kidding, sir, _kidding_." He turned to Matthew and sent him a short wave and a quirked smile. "Nice to see you again, kid."

Matthew offered a tired smile and a small wave in return.

General Hammond looked warningly at the colonel again before saying, "Now, Matthew, you and SG-1 were not supposed to have met when they went to your brother's property in Texas, but now that y'all are acquainted, that's all there is to it."

Oh, that's what the look toward the colonel was about. Matthew was sorry if he had gotten them in trouble, but he was grateful to have met them. Looking up from his inspection of the grain of the wooden tabletop, Matthew asked, "Could you please tell me what happened to my brother, General Hammond?"

There was a second of silence, and the general said, "I wish that I could say that it's extremely classified, but the President has informed me that you have all of the clearances and will be signing this since you've come as a civilian." He passed a manila folder over to Matthew.

Matthew's eyebrows furrowed slightly as he accepted it, and he felt a sinking feeling in his stomach. He placed the folder on the table and flipped it open, but he froze as soon as he saw what paper was stapled to the right side of the folder: _Non-Disclosure Agreement_.

_I was right_. Whatever he learned, he couldn't take the information back to his nation. But he _was_ a nation. Matthew gripped the folder tightly, his left fingers threatening to crease the edge. _Are you expecting me to choose between myself and my brother?_

Colonel O'Neill said, "I know that this was discussed before he arrived, General, but I'm still not sure that it's necessary." Matthew stared at the colonel in surprise. "Although I do admit that I'm uncertain how the rules would work for him."

"How so, Colonel?"

"Well, to start off, I mean, he's going to be staying with McKay, right? And McKay already knows and signed the Non-Disclosure Agreement a long time ago, whenever it was that he managed to get onto the payroll. Therefore, since McKay has signed it, if Matthew signs it, then doesn't that mean that he automatically knows whatever McKay knows and therefore everything cancels out and it's useless?"

Matthew's eyebrows furrowed together. "Eh, what?"

"That would make sense, but that's not what the general's talking about," the blonde woman next to O'Neill spoke up. "The Non-Disclosure Agreement means that you can't tell anyone what you've learned. It would make sense that Matthew wouldn't know what McKay knew based on what the Non-Disclosure Agreement has bound, but the binding is meant to keep people from talking, which theoretically should still apply to Matthew."

"But McKay's a part of Matthew," O'Neill persisted. "Therefore, his signature on a NDA would actually prove McKay's signature to be worthless as soon as Matthew's signed."

Matthew decided that he wanted to join the conversation. "I'm sorry, but what…?"

The man with glasses shook his head. "I'm sorry, we haven't fully explained your arrangements yet, have we? Since we've already met you, one of us would have offered to house you—or at least have you rooming closer to us—but we're too well-known, and we don't want to put that attention on you, especially since we've had so much activity the past few days that attention is almost impossible to keep off of us. In order to give _you_ a lower profile, we're bringing you in under the pretense of helping an astrophysicist named Rodney McKay. He's Canadian, and we thought that that might be easiest for you, since you're currently on an American military base made up almost entirely of people who aren't yours."

_Oh._ "Thank you," he murmured sincerely.

"But we also apologize in advance. He might be one of yours, but he's _not_ the most genial person," Colonel O'Neill said.

Something else which Matthew wasn't sure how to take, so he settled for, "Um, thanks for the warning, eh…?" He would be staying with one of his own citizens—how terrible could McKay be?

"I further apologize that I cannot offer you your own room for the entire duration of your stay after tonight," General Hammond said. "We have limited space here on the base, and we're about to have more visitors tomorrow. If the meeting lasts longer than tomorrow, I'm going to need as many rooms open as possible."

"That's all right," Matthew said.

There was a second of silence, and then Matthew braved, "I'm sorry, but my earlier question wasn't answered."

"I'm sorry, son, which one?"

Matthew took a deep breath and said, "What happened to Alfred? Where is he?"

Silence. Then, "That's going to be a very long story, Matthew."

"I presume that we have time, eh?"

General Hammond exhaled deeply, and then, pointing to the folder in front of Matthew, he said, "You haven't agreed whether you're going to sign that Non-Disclosure Agreement."

Rare anger coursed through Matthew. Was he seriously—

"I understand that he is your brother, but I have to think of my country as well as this base. This base is so classified that your brother only visited here _once_, and under normal circumstances, you would never have even learned that this place existed," General Hammond finished.

Matthew deflated. Oh.

He looked down at the table. He needed to sign the paper in front of him if he wanted to help search for his brother. What was so necessary about staying on _this_ base in order to find Alfred if this could potentially harm himself? Couldn't he just search for Alfred on his own?

According to their implications, no.

And according to the sense that had always connected him and Alfred and had sent him on this strange trip… no.

He shook his head internally. To the best of his knowledge, none of this had been used against him yet, and for now, he had to trust that it wouldn't—and would not have—in the future. Besides, if there was already a Canadian on base, Alfred—or Alfred's people—was trying hard but not as hard as he and they could be to keep this place secret. And as soon as it became dangerous, his Prime Minister would know, right? But given that there was a Canadian already on base, did _his_ government already know? Could his Prime Minister have known about this base and never told him?

That final question stung the most, and Matthew fought hard against self-doubt. There was no way that his Prime Minister could have forgotten to have told him about something that was obviously this important given how classified everything had been (and that Alfred had only been there once)… was there?

Was it the right decision if he stayed? Could he act alone—as Matthew and not as Canada—and not face severe consequences? A Non-Disclosure Agreement was a legally binding contract. Was it revocable? Was it possible to hide something from himself?

He didn't know.

Matthew had come to this place searching for his brother, but the warnings of the President and Colonel O'Neill now weighed upon his mind as they hadn't before. The weight of his exhaustion fell upon him, too, as he feared a Faustian deal.

He hated himself for what he was thinking, what he was about to say, because it felt like a betrayal of the conviction that he had given when he had spoken out at Alfred's property in Texas, and when he apologized silently, he wasn't sure if he was apologizing to himself or to Alfred. Looking back up to the General, "May I have the night to think it over?"

The general's brow furrowed confusedly, and then his face set in a way that made Matthew fear that he was about to be thrown off of the base, regardless of the President's permission. He was grateful when Colonel O'Neill broke in with, "It's fine, kid." The general sent the colonel a look, and O'Neill responded, shrugging, "What? Just give the kid the night to think it over. It's not like he'll learn anything classified in one of our spare quarters. Besides," he said when the general was about to interrupt, "it's been a very long day for all of us. I can't believe that _I'm_ the one saying this, but I wouldn't mind some sleep, and I'm sure the kid will make a decision with much more conviction when he's had a chance to de-stress."

General Hammond nodded, exhaling slowly. "All right, Colonel O'Neill." Turning to Matthew, he said, "You may stay on this base overnight, Mr. Williams. I'll have two guards escort you—and Valor—to one of our spare rooms, but I need your answer in the morning. I'm afraid that, given the circumstances, I can't afford to give you any longer than that."

Matthew nodded gratefully. "I can do that."

"Good." General Hammond pointed to the open folder that still lay in front of Matthew. "Then I will leave that with you tonight, and I will see you in my office by 0800." Looking at the other side of the table, General Hammond said, "You are dismissed, SG-1. We will proceed as discussed."

There was a grateful, scattered chorus of, "Yes, sir."

General Hammond rose from his chair, and Matthew and SG-1 followed suit. The general extended his hand out, and Matthew shook it quickly. Releasing it, General Hammond turned to leave the room, but Colonel O'Neill spoke up and said, "Sir, is it all right if I or one of us escorts Matthew to the guest quarters?"

General Hammond sent the officer another look that Matthew could not quite interpret, and Colonel O'Neill held up his hands again and said, "What? It's not like we'll get lost. Besides, I thought it would be nicer if a friendly face dropped him off rather than a random guard."

General Hammond appeared to struggle with himself again, and then he nodded. "All right, Colonel O'Neill." Then he left the Debriefing Room.

Colonel O'Neill turned to Matthew and said, "If it's all right, I'll escort you to your quarters, kid."

Matthew wasn't sure how he felt about being called a kid—he was much older than the colonel, no matter _how_ old the colonel was—and he didn't have enough energy to consider whether the colonel might have a motive, so he simply nodded with a tired smile. "Thank you."

The lady—Carter, Matthew read—and the larger man—Teal'c, which was a strange name, but Matthew had heard some strange names before—bid Matthew an exhausted but friendly farewell (well, Carter's was exhausted, at any rate). The man with glasses—Jackson, whom Colonel O'Neill had claimed was his twin back in Texas—turned to them excitedly, but O'Neill said with a smirk, "Good night, Daniel."

Daniel appeared taken aback, but he recovered himself quickly, pushing his glasses upwards before resting his hands on his hips. "Are you saying that I can't come, Jack?"

"You just want to ask the kid questions. He's tired, you're tired, and I'm tired. Anything you want to know can wait until tomorrow after we've all promised to share information," Jack said. "Good night, Daniel."

Daniel looked at Jack reproachfully, crossing his arms over his chest. "Maybe I actually do just want to walk him over. General Hammond _did_ say two guards."

"And he also said that _one_ of us could walk him over instead," Jack rebutted. "So I repeat—_good night, Daniel."_

Daniel let out a long exhale. "_Fine._ Good night, Jack." Turning to Matthew, he offered his hand (which Matthew shook) and said sincerely, "Good night, Matthew. We'll see you in the morning."

"Good night, Dr. Jackson."

Then Daniel left.

Jack reached across the table and, pulling it closer to himself, closed the folder with the Non-Disclosure Agreement before picking it up. He turned to Matthew and, gesturing toward the door, asked, "Well, shall we go?"

Matthew nodded and then walked toward his vacant chair to pick up Valor's carrier. When he picked it up, O'Neill said, "I had forgotten that you'd walked in with him. But it's Carter who must be tired. Otherwise she'd have been all over the little guy." He leaned over to look at Valor, and realizing that the fluffy cat filled most of the dog-sized cat carrier, added, "Well, maybe not so small." Looking closer, his eyebrows narrowed at the cat's stillness. "Is he all right? He doesn't look much better than after we left."

"He doesn't," Matthew murmured, shaking his head. "His condition hasn't improved any."

O'Neill stood, giving him a sideways glance as he walked toward the door. "I'm a little afraid to ask this question, but what does that mean for Alfred?"

Matthew looked down at the floor as he followed and didn't answer, uncertain if he was withholding the answer out of spite for not having _his_ questions about his brother answered or because he didn't want to think about the answer himself. Maybe it was both (even though perhaps he was being unfair, after all, since the colonel _had_ been trying to help him). "I don't know, eh," he said quietly.

Colonel O'Neill exhaled deeply. "I was afraid of that," he murmured, but it was said so quietly that Matthew wasn't sure if the colonel had replied or breathed.

They walked down the hall in silence. For the first time, Matthew felt anxious in the quiet, but he didn't know what to say. He didn't even know where he was going, and that was metaphorical and literal. He had almost said something—even apologizing for having been rude in his response or asking if the colonel had said something, to fill the silence—when the colonel cleared his throat. He turned and saw Colonel O'Neill looking down at the folder, weighing it in his hand as though he could measure something from it.

"So…" he asked, clearing his throat again. Perhaps the silence bothered him as much as Matthew. "Any chance of a signature by morning?"

Anything but that. Matthew wanted to throw his hands up in the air, bang them against the corridor's metal wall—something. All he wanted was to find Alfred, to learn _anything_ so that he could sort out the mess of confusion in his head, and he had only been given more questions. Why should _he_ answer questions? He huffed quietly and said, "I don't even know what to do anymore. All I want to is to find out where my brother is, but I can't even get _that_ question answered."

They walked a distance down the hall toward an elevator, and Colonel O'Neill pressed the call station. Anger was rare for Matthew, and by the time the eternity of those few seconds had passed in renewed silence and the elevator still had not come down, the brief adrenaline rush had almost faded. Deflating, began to worry if he should apologize. He was about to speak when the elevator doors opened, and he followed after the colonel into the elevator. Reaching over, Colonel O'Neill selected an upper floor, its button backlit. Matthew was almost fidgeting by the time that the elevator doors closed, and when he did, he had just opened his mouth when he was startled by the colonel saying, "I get that you're frustrated, kid, and I would be too, but… don't count yourself out just yet."

Matthew tried to slow his racing heart. "What, eh?"

O'Neill hummed, searching for words. "I don't know what it's like for you, but from what your brother described to us…" He shrugged. "Well, from my perspective, our offer to you sounds like what might be another military asking me to join them."

Matthew could do nothing but stare, his brows furrowed tightly together.

Jack continued, "I guess what I'm trying to say is, I would never regret my choice to be what I am, but my position can be… difficult. To act, I mean, sometimes. I'm an officer, and I have duties to those with higher ranks and authorities, even if some of those want actions that I know aren't right. Things always seem to work out one way or another, but…" He paused, searching for words again, "I guess what I'm trying to say is, sometimes, Daniel's mobility is nice."

"Daniel's mobility?" Matthew echoed, confused.

Jack shrugged. "He's a civilian. He gets to work with his nation's military doing geeky Daniel things while never being subject to a court-martial for disobeying orders. I can _do_ things that he can't, but he can _get away_ with things that I can't." He shrugged, looking down at the folder. "And who knows? If I'm right, then you might learn more by signing than by not."

A _bing_ sounded, and then the doors slid open. As they stepped out into the new hallway, Matthew said, "I don't quite understand what you're trying to say."

They stopped beside a door with the word GUEST blazoned in large white letters across the front. Jack opened the door, and, as though not hearing Matthew's statement, he gestured inside. Matthew saw a medium-sized room with a full-sized bed, a small table with a couple of chairs, and mostly bare, metal walls, except for a few decorative pictures and a vase with fake flowers upon the table. Jack announced, "And here's home for the night. It's not the Hilton, but it works, at least for us." He pointed to the guards stationed at the end of the hall. "I'm heading back to my room, but if you need something during the night, they'll be able to help you."

Matthew nodded, unsure of what else to do or say. As Jack passed the folder to him, the colonel said quietly, "I guess what I've been trying to say is that, when you're making your choice tonight, just… think about Daniel."

Then he bid Matthew good night and walked away.

Matthew stood before his open room, the cat carrier in one hand and the folder in the other. Whispering apologies to Valor for the jostling, he entered his room and quietly shut the door. He set Valor down on the table and then looked inside the carrier, relieved to see the cat breathing, although he was sleeping deeply. Matthew opened the carrier door so that the cat could exit if he wanted to, stroked him gently and listened to Valor's quiet acknowledgement when he partially awoke with his touch. Then Matthew left him be, walking toward his bed. He found his backpack beside his bed, grateful that it had been brought to his room after all. Standing in front of the bed, he looked down at the manila folder in his left hand.

"_Think of Daniel."_

What did _that_ mean? _And where was Alfred?_

Matthew flung the folder on the floor, hoping to hear it clatter, but the carpet muffled the sound to a meek shuffle. He sensed some sort of self-identification and groaned, flopping face-down on the bed. He fisted the cover in his hands. _All_ he had wanted was to find Alfred, and instead, he was in some top-secret American military base that wanted him to act like a civilian, and for what? What if when he did—

He squeezed his eyes shut. _What am I supposed to do?_

* * *

><p>Captain Judson sat awake in bed, staring at the ceiling. It was lights out. He was expected to sleep, but he couldn't stop thinking about the guy that had laid two beds down from him on the first night that he had spent in the infirmary.<p>

It was strange thinking that that corpse had been living a week before.

It had been such a strange meeting, too. Judson hadn't known the guy. He had just been mystified that a guy could sit alone in the Commissary with a book instead of with his team members. (Even if that had been a bad example, given that _he_ was there alone, but that was because he had been waiting for the rest of his team to arrive for lunch.)

And what mystified him more was that the guy was reading _The Iliad_. Who the heck read Homer—and over _lunch_?

So, like any good Marine, he had marched right over and told him so. The Air Force Captain had merely looked up, eyed him with a blank expression that bordered on unnervingly expressionless, and then replied, "The lettered," before returning to his lunch and his book.

Judson had reeled. Had he just been _insulted?_ He asked him so.

The captain didn't even look up when he responded tonelessly, "If you feel the insatiable need to reflect upon yourself the opposite meaning of the words that I only utilized for myself, then you are free to engage in such an action. I cannot legally entice or prevent you."

Now he _knew_ that he had been insulted. There was _no way_ someone gave so long of a response with such high-toned language without using it to insult. And he said so, in much clearer and simpler language: _"Excuse me?"_

The captain looked up at him with a level look. "I do not know why you are expressing such anger at me, given that _you_ invited antagonism from me by implying that _I_ was foolish to engage in an action that provides me enjoyment in a few of the only free minutes that I have during the day, which just so happens to be over my lunch period."

Judson hadn't known what to say. As much as he hated to admit it, he _had_ brought that on himself (but the guy didn't have to be so _rude_, did he?). He wanted to retaliate angrily—he hadn't been _trying_ to be rude!—but now he felt like a louse. He turned away.

He had wanted to forget that the entire thing had ever happened, but now he felt terrible. He felt like he should apologize, but he didn't know how, or if the guy would even listen. The captain had returned to his book, effectively ending the conversation. Anything said would now be from Judson's part.

Well, his grandmother used to say, _Try and try again_. He took a deep breath, turned back to the captain, and said, "Let's try this again." When the captain looked up, that same neutral look on his face, Judson stuck out of his hand and said, "First Lieutenant Andrew Judson. I'm sorry for my earlier words, but I was… taken aback to find someone who reads Homer on this base. Excepting maybe one of the researchers."

The captain blinked momentarily in surprise, and then he said slowly, "Captain Nathaniel Hartwood." As he shook Judson's hand once but firmly, he said, "I'm sure that you'll find more people on this base that read the classics in their free time than you believe, Captain Andrew Judson."

Judson stood across from Captain Hartwood, not sure what to say. "Would you name a few who think beyond mechanics, sports and PT? Because I admit that _I_ enjoy those topics, and while I've known a few who've read classics recently, I know fewer who have actually read _epics_."

Hartwood's lips quirked slightly at the edges as he responded, "And there equally are not many on his base that could identify the difference."

Judson held up his hands. "Whoa. I'm not a scholar of _any_ type, so don't even try me."

Hartwood shook his head. "I never meant to imply that, only that perhaps you have sold yourself short."

Judson paused, sensing a compliment from the seemingly recalcitrant captain but afraid to pounce on it in case he misinterpreted another insult. Instead, he asked, "May I sit down?" Judson pulled out the opposite plastic chair when Hartwood nodded.

He had begun slicing his steak when Hartwood asked, "Have you read _The Iliad_ before, or are you merely familiar with what it is?"

Judson laughed. "No, I've read it. But it was a long time ago, so don't ask me to quote you anything." He gestured to the book in the captain's hand. "Where are you at?"

Hartwood looked fondly down at the pages, and then he said, "Hector realizes that he has been tricked by Athene, that he is about to die at the hands of Achilleus, so he charges forward in a final act of courage. I love the way that Lattimore translated his final thoughts as, 'But now my death is upon me. Let me at least not die without a struggle, inglorious, but do some big thing first, that men to come shall know of it.'" He paused for a moment, a smile briefly upon his face before it faded to contemplation. "Actually, it is so like McKay's poem that I wonder if he had read _The Iliad_, or if he were merely expressing a similar sentiment." **[2]**

Judson stared at Hartwood flatly. "I hope that you don't mean Rodney McKay."

Hartwood snorted. "Heavens, no. I am referring to Claude McKay, the poet and activist. Why, is our McKay a poet as well?"

"Hardly," Judson said, rolling his eyes.

"Good. I might be afraid to read anything that he had written that wasn't computer-coded or Stargate-related. Rodney McKay does not extend gracefully outside of his comfort zone, from what I have heard."

"And you do, Nathan?" a voice sounded from behind.

Judson and Hartwood looked to the side at the same time to see another captain holding a tray. Hartwood smiled. Judson wouldn't have thought it was possible before that point, but maybe the guy was just reserved with strangers. Hartwood said jovially, "Edward! Welcome. Are you staying for lunch, or are you suffering three bites before departing to continue translations again?"

Edward—Captain Rodriguez, Judson read from his embroidered name and the rank on his uniform—laughed. "No. Thankfully, I get to eat this time. Although you appear to have bought a salad to absorb by osmosis again." He sat down and then, adjusting his tray in front of him, crumbled some red peppers on top of the steak. Then he stabbed his fork into the mystery-meat steak and bit into it happily.

Hartwood stared flatly at the food. "I have no idea how you can consume that with any enjoyment. The salads are barely passable, but thankfully, while possible, it is rather difficult to ruin a salad."

Rodriguez swallowed. "Maybe I'm willing to allow myself to enjoy the food?" he retorted glibly.

Hartwood rolled his eyes. "I doubt that. There are some things which even your cheerfulness—or your chile—can't cure."

"We'll see, Nathan. Someday, you may admit to enjoying something from this Commissary—or this century, at the very least."

"I enjoyed _Omeros_, and I assure you, that is an epic written within our century. We haven't progressed long enough into our century for you to separate it from the twentieth. As for this Commissary…" Hartwood paused to contemplate. He said, "I enjoy when I leave."

Rodriguez laughed, and Judson found his laughter joining the other captain's.

His thoughts returning to the present, Judson acknowledged again how scary it was that a guy you had just met was gone. He had actually gone over that night, dragging himself out of bed to stare at the wrapped body. He had repeated the words that Hartwood had told him, and he had asked Hartwood if he had faced his death like Hektor. There was no response from the silent body, but Judson hoped that Hartwood had died in a way that he didn't regret. He hoped that he could face his own death with dignity and courage. Hadn't he stared it in the face during the assault, even if he had been spared?

He had remained by the bedside for a while, and then he had lost his footing on the way back to his bed, presumably from exhaustion and injury. (If the nurses had found him out of bed, they would have thrown a fit. After all, he _had_ just been shot.) He awoke some time later on the cold tile floor, his entire body aching, but a significant portion from the top down. He must have hit his head as he fell and somehow not woken Peterson, who had fallen asleep from fatigue—and his arm injury, which had caused him a lot of pain, even if he had a Marine's high pain tolerance—on the side of his bed while keeping him company earlier, in his usual worry-wart fashion. Judson had dragged himself back to bed and slept, feeling significantly better in the morning (especially since Peterson, that mother hen, had thankfully relocated himself sometime during the night).

Judson stared up at the ceiling, feeling goosebumps scatter across his arms. It was a strange and almost frightening thought to come to terms with the fact that the body that had lied two beds down had not just been an unknown soldier who had died in the line of fire—he had actually given the face a name two weeks earlier, Captain Nathaniel Hartwood, the random Air Force Captain who had been reading _The Iliad_ over lunch. He hadn't even had the opportunity to ask him if he was a fan of Nathaniel Hawthorne by inheritance of name similarity. Or if he was the Nathaniel Hartwood who was rumored to randomly spout off Milton in the hallways.

Now he'd never get to ask him. And soon, there might not be anyone else left to ask, either.

* * *

><p><em>Washington, D.C., USA<em>

_The White House_

The seemingly spare guest room was silent. It would have been completely dark, too, but for the blinking red light on the answering machine that rested on the nightstand beside the twin-sized bed. The answering machine's screen displayed a blinking red _3_, signifying that there were three messages stored within the machine's memory banks. Suddenly, the light on the cordless phone lit up, the Caller ID displaying _Unknown Caller_. The phone rang and rang, the bell-like tone reverberating around the empty, darkened room.

Finally, the answering machine activated. _"Hello! S'up, dude?"_ a voice declared cheerily. There was a pause, as though the speaker was listening to the caller on the other line, but then the message continued, _"You've reached the one-and-only Alfred F. Jones. If I've missed your call, then I'm probably out saving the world. Upon return to my hideaway, the hero will be happy to return your distress call. So leave your message at the tone!"_

There was a long, low beep. A distinctive voice carried so loudly through the speakers that they crackled. _"Alfred, you git! Change that recording! Every time I call I think that you've actually picked up the phone. And while I'm on that note, _pick up your damn cell phone._ I have been attempting to reach you since yesterday!"_

The speaker paused to breathe deeply, and then he continued hotly, _"I know that you are ignoring me purposefully. You always do that when you know that you're in trouble. Well, you're not escaping this time, you insufferable prat, because I am going to call you until you respond. And until you deign to give me a response, you can tell that equally insufferable prat of an alien friend of yours, Tony, to stop making crop circles in my backyard! He nearly killed my rose bushes, and if they _do_ die in the near future, I am going to hold you personally responsible, and I _will_ hunt you down and force you to replace them! I am sick and tired of you two attempting to prank me by mistreating my garden!"_

The phone slammed into the opposite receiver. A loud static whine caused the speakers to crackle, and then the message terminated with a soft _click_.

* * *

><p><span>AN: WE HAVE FINALLY REACHED THE END OF DAY TWO! 8D *tosses confetti everywhere before busting out the piñata* AND THESE AUTHOR'S NOTES ARE SHORT!

I'm sorry that this took a while to post. I was hindered by a mixture of life, classes, and the need to rearrange and/or rewrite sections of this chapter several times.

Chapter Clincher: He talked the good fight earlier, but now that Matthew's arrived, will he sign? Or will he decide that there are no loopholes around his national status? We'll find out~

**[1]**: Schrödinger the cat that Carter gave to Narim, the Tollan. (Wikia just told me that it was hers, but that he gave it back to her later. See? She is a cat person! XD)

**[2]**: The translation of _The Iliad_ (by Homer) that Hartwood refers to is the Richmond Lattimore translation, copyrighted through Chicago Press in 1951, with the paperback edition being released in 1961. (My paperback copy, however, had to have been reprinted much later because it was _much_ too new looking when I got it. Although I couldn't find the date of its reprint, it's not new-looking anymore after unfortunately suffering self-inflicted water damage from a squirt gun with the intention of a good cause. …Don't ask.) I didn't mark line separations in this chapter, but for the curious (and my conscience), I cite the line numbers of the quote: 22.303—305.

Liked, disliked, questions, concerns, constructive criticism? Please drop your thoughts in the little box below! I love hearing from you. :) And on that note, thank you very much for your reviews, favorites, and alerts. Your continued support means the world to me, and if you came this far to decide that you're done, then thank you for having read this far. :)


	17. Part the Seventeenth

A/N: WE'RE OVER 10,000 HITS! XD

I'm very sorry that this took so long to post. Grad school almost ate me, and this was a beast to put together. I'm still not 100% happy with it (and you're probably disappointed that it's shorter than the last chapter). But I figured that, hey, it's Christmas, so here you go!

For those interesting in soundtracks, please remember that De Luca's is "Sound the Bugle," from _Spirit: Stallion of the Cimarron_. He has a second soundtrack piece within the chapter (and this second should remain as his soundtrack for the remainder of the story unless I tell you otherwise) that I won't tell you the name of now, but you'll know exactly when it begins. :)

Disclaimer: I do not own _Hetalia Axis Powers_ or _Stargate SG-1_. They belong to their respective owners. I am making no money off of this fanfiction. It is for entertainment purposes only.

* * *

><p><span>Into the Wild Blue Yonder—Part the Seventeenth<span>

_Ba'als Outpost_

"—_Madre de Dios, ruega por nosotros pecadores, ahora y en la hora de nuestra muerte. __Amén." _

Rodriguez's soft voice echoed quietly in the chamber. He was counting the prayers with his fingers because the Jaffa soldiers had filched his combat rosary when they were captured. _Cabrones stole la Virgen, too_, he thought bitterly, remembering the small, golden medal of _La Virgen de Guadalupe_ that his mother had given him before he left for the Air Force Academy. How their eyes had glittered when they had seen the glittering gold before they ripped the chain from his neck. The memory made Rodriguez nauseous. Breathing deeply and slowly to calm his stomach, he started another prayer. It was keeping him sane.

"_Dios te salve, Maria—"_ The wound on his right leg burned, causing his muscles to spasm. He curled into himself, his hands clenching. Momentarily blinded, he forgot which Hail Mary he was on or where he was as he hissed, _"Madre de Dios, ruega—"_

He tumbled forward when the gravity shifted. He hadn't seen the ceiling open, now a door. He squeezed his eyes shut, blocking out the approaching footsteps, the prayer lost but for, "_Ruega—"_ **[1]**

* * *

><p>Witkowski rubbed at the thin fabric above his heart, feeling the thin metal within the inner pocket. It was warm from being close to his skin, but he trusted the strength of the titanium alloy. It had miraculously survived the Jaffa's search, and in all honestly, it <em>only<em> survived because he hadn't been wearing it around his neck, or he would have lost it when they took his dog tags. Like Rodriguez's golden Catholic medal and the colonel's watch. He thought he heard something break inside his teammates when _those_ were lost.

But it had survived. The little titanium alloy cross had survived, so small that the Jaffa hadn't sensed it when he brought it in. It wasn't a bullet, but it was the next best thing.

Pain flared along his back, and Witkowski hissed, his hands dropping beside him to support him. As it ebbed away, he shifted along the wall gently, very gently, to find a new section of cold wall. As he stopped, relishing in the cold, he realized that the only plus side to having died and been resurrected several times by an evil Goa'uld System Lord was that the sarcophagus had healed his original side injury. Of course, he now had more to replace it, but it was the thought that counted. He would've laughed—_anything_ to add some sound to the soundless room—but it would have hurt too much. He settled for wondering how he could have found something like that funny, deciding that his brain was too foggy from the last interrogation to think straight.

He reached toward his heart, outlining the small ornament with a groan. His body ached with each movement. Perhaps if he was more lucid, he would have felt the minuscule weight contained within shift as the liquid that enveloped it gently sloshed, but he couldn't.

Witkowski had never been certain how he would die, how he would like to die. If he was ever faced with the choice, some part of him would like to go out with a bang… but perhaps that was the crazy pyromaniac inside of him talking.

He rubbed his heart, the titanium hard beneath his fingertip. Chuckling to himself (and then regretting it when he groaned in pain), Witkowski realized, suddenly, the irony of having hollowed out a _cross_. He had just wanted an unassuming shape, but now—

His breath hitched, and his eyes went fuzzy. As the room spun, Witkowski realized that the poison must finally be taking its toll. Desperately, he reached under his shirt—_he wanted to die for _once_ on his own terms, dammit!_—and he was filled was with one thought, _I can end this_. His fingers felt the titanium, grasped at the tiny piece in his palm, because he'd send Ba'al screaming to the _real_ Hell, ending it all for—

Himself?

He unclenched his fingers. _Not yet._

He couldn't sentence his teammates. He couldn't face them if he did that to them due to his own weakness. He would lose track of when he had thought this, but he would hold onto the thought until they escaped: _Wait._

His body ached, burning all over. He shivered, curling into himself. His breathing became shallower, his ears rang, and he gasped for breath. His vision dimmed, and then his hand fell limply to the floor.

* * *

><p>Ba'al carefully emptied the syringe of blood into a small test tube and capped it. He didn't want his sample contaminated in case he ran more tests later.<p>

So far, the tests on the boy's blood had turned up negative. Negative of foreign organic material, negative of foreign computer-driven material, negative of foreign technology… He had even run a DNA scan in comparison to the existing alien races and species that were in his computer, and still the computer had the audacity to tell him that the boy was a mortal member of the Tauri. _At almost three hundred years old?_

There was one drop left in the syringe, however, and Ba'al had one more test that he wished to try. It was a rather ludicrous idea, given the Tauri boy's physical state, but ideas, regardless of improbability, were never disproven unless tested. Pressing a small button on the wall, a small trap slid out. He placed the final drop on the slate, and then, pressing the same button, watched as it retracted back into the wall.

A light clacking carried in from behind the door. The door slid open. "My lord?"

Ba'al watched the blinking lights in front of him, not even turning to the Jaffa soldier as he answered, "Yes?"

"My lord, your isolated prisoner has just awakened."

Ba'al slowly turned to face the messenger, a small smile on his face. Good news did indeed some in time. Excellent. "Take him to the interrogation room. I will question him as soon as I am finished here."

"Yes, my lord." The Jaffa turned on his heel and left, the door closing behind him.

Ba'al hummed as he rinsed his hands free from the boy's blood. It would be a few minutes until the computer had finished its readings on the sample, and the boy should last at least another day or so. He had time to question the other prisoner.

* * *

><p>The prisoner was already in the interrogation room, sprawled across the metal web like an overgrown insect. Injured, he stared defiantly through obsidian eyes narrow and glittering when Ba'al glided slowly into the room. Irises glowing golden once, a stark contrast to his dark skin, he demanded, "Release me."<p>

Ba'al smirked. "And why would I do that?"

"You responded to courtesy with treachery. I demand release."

Ba'al's smirk remained fixed as he stepped over to his small table, tapping a small panel. It popped open and Ba'al peered into the container, his fingers hovering over the items. "I hardly believe that you're in a position to bargain, but…" He picked up first one and then another knife, its dark gray blade long and jagged, holding the handles loosely in his fingers as he took a seat in the chair in front of the web. He considered the blades off-handedly as he said, amused, "Do share with me. How was I the more treacherous?"

"You should have submitted, Ba'al."

"And yet, somehow, I'm here," Ba'al said, gesturing to his chair and the room around him with the knives, "and you're there." Leaning back, Ba'al asked, "What did you really want when you came?"

His eyes glowed obstinately.

"Nothing to say?" Ba'al, admiring the serrated edge shining in the light, balanced the knife in his right hand on his fingertip. It wobbled for a second at the edge of the gravity field—but only a second. It flew.

The Goa'uld grunted as the knife pierced his side.

"Do you recognize these? They used to be your trademark."

The Goa'uld glared. Ba'al asked again, "What did you seek when you came?"

His eyes narrowed, the Goa'uld said, "I have made my allegiances. You are not among them now."

"Really?" Ba'al hummed. The prisoner watched the knife, but not fearfully. Ba'al would change that. Returning to the panel, he said, "You did develop a high tolerance for knives over the years. I'll have to… try something different." Maybe a poisoned one. But should it be a stronger or weaker poison? He could always start weaker and then move his way up. He had time; he could use Tal'vak acid later. Picking a weaker acid, he balanced a few drops on the blade, watching the soft shimmer that proved it had absorbed the acid, and then stepped before the web again. "How low you have fallen, Huitzilopochtli. I remember a time when you were the most feared of all of the Goa'uld System Lords, after Tezcalipoca lost power."

Huitzilopochtli spat, "I will regain my place."

"You said that when you came." Ba'al extended his hand, the blade rising horizontally with the gravitational pull. He released the blade. Huitzilopochtli gasped as it pierced his chest. Ba'al asked, "How did you plan to overthrow Anubis?"

"He will bow before his god."

Ba'al laughed quietly. "You couldn't make me bow to you. Why should Anubis?" He turned around to peruse his drawer. Surely he had more knives.

Huizilopochtli coughed, his eyes widening, but not quite in true fear. "You have poisoned the blades."

"I am returning what I have stolen," Ba'al replied lightly.

Huizilopochtli grunted, pain overcoming his features. "You stole my formulas."

"I have altered them, too. You will find that they are stronger now." Ba'al pulled out another knife before sitting down in his chair again. "Let's try again. Why did you come?"

Huitzilopochtli choked out a small spray of blood.

Ba'al pulled out the acid and coated the next blade. "After Zipacna betrayed you, I did not think you would return. Why are you here, and who else has come with you?"

"My own strength is enough."

Ba'al released the blade, causing Huizilopochtli to cry out.

"Why are you here, and who else has come with you?" Ba'al paused, and then, rising, he said, "Perhaps I should refresh your memory." Drawing his final knife, he slowly coated it with acid, and then, walking toward Huitzilopochtli, said, "My forces destroyed your fleets. Mictlantecuhtli fled like a coward. His host was killed before he reached the Stargate."

Huitzilopochtli hissed as his muscles contracted and his heart skipped a beat. Blood dripped down his chin. He choked out, "Bow before us, Ba'al."

"Us?" Ba'al smiled. He shook his head, humming, as he settled in his chair again. "Even after Zipacna betrayed you to Ra? Even after Mictlantecuhtli abandoned you? We are meant to rule alone, Huitzilopochtli." Leaning forward, he studied the knife, and then he repeated, "Who else came with you?"

Huitzilopochtli's eyes flashed as he coughed, blood dripping. "Your heart will fuel our eternal struggle."

Ba'al frowned. He hurled the final knife, and Huitzilopochtli screamed. Pressing a button hard, the web gave way, and Huitzilopochtli's host body fell through to the depths.

Ba'al took a deep breath, reminding himself that he had an eternity with which to break the resurrected Goa'uld. There was no rush at all.

* * *

><p><em>De Luca felt pain sear into his back. He screamed. When it abated, he vaguely heard a question asked, but there was so much white noise in his ears that he couldn't perceive the words. His head hung down. Pain—<em>

De Luca gasped, his eyes half-opening before he groaned. He was still on the cold tile. It wasn't a good sign that he was dreaming about the torture. It might have been a sign that he was passing into delirium. The delirium usually set in after the second round. Or was it the third? At what point did Ba'al show up again? Had he seen him? How many times?

De Luca tried to breathe, but his throat burned; and he coughed, feeling light-headed. He cringed from the trembling his muscles produced from the movement.

Laying his head back down, he thought that he heard music. He would have hummed along to fill the empty space, but his throat was too raw. For a moment, he thought that he saw a fuzzy image of Hartwood in front of him, looking down at him with that expressionless concern, but when he blinked, the image was gone.

Gone. Just like in reality.

The music continued. De Luca closed his eyes and listened, exhaling slowly. When it continued, he knew that it was just in his mind.

* * *

><p><em>De Luca paused in the doorway. He continued walking out of the guest room, staring at the stucco walls. It was his grandparents' house. Somewhere, he could hear his older relatives speaking rapid Italian to each other. Two of his nephews were sitting in a corner of the living room, watching<em> _a movie on a small TV, and his niece was sitting in a chair, a book in her lap as she attempting to ignore the movie._

_He paused. What was he doing here?_

"_Colonel de Luca."_

_He turned. __Captain Hartwood leaned languidly against a doorway, almost unburdened, an open book in his hand. Judging by the amount of tabs along the edge of the pages, it appeared to be _Paradise Lost_. "I've finally found a metrical passage that will trump your Dante and make you admit it." _

_De Luca froze, exclaiming, "What—"_

_Hartwood laughed and closed his book. "Where's Dante? I thought that you always carried him with you."_

"_But—" _

_Hartwood shook his head, and then he placed his book into De Luca's hands. When De Luca looked down, it had changed to Dante's _La Divina Commedia, _but when he opened it, none of the words were in Italian. De Luca looked back up to question Hartwood, but the captain walked past him to exit the hallway, waving a backward, careless farewell._

"_No, wait—! Hartwood!"_

_He followed him out of the hallway, but Hartwood had disappeared and left the door open. He heard singing carrying in from outside. That didn't sound like Hartwood's voice, though. Maybe the singer was outside in the garden with Hartwood? Was that Rodriguez singing one of his Spanish hymns?_

_He ran toward the back door and stepped outside—only to find himself in a different house. No, not a house. This was a small apartment in the outskirts of New York City, the walls grimy and the room dark. He felt cold, but the singing continued. He followed it to another room. There was a light switch next to the doorframe, and he flipped it on. A bare lightbulb harshly lit up the small, windowless space, illuminating a small calendar taped to the wall near his hand: July 19—. _

_The last two numbers were blurred, and when De Luca moved closer, they didn't sharpen. It had to be important, but De Luca couldn't recall what had happened. Just then, the music caught his attention again. It was nearby. He looked up, his hand falling from the light switch to his side._

_A teenage boy, not a day over sixteen, with chestnut-brown hair and light skin stood in the center of the room, a yo-yo moving up and down in one hand as he sang a jaunty, Puerto Rican tune. He turned, light green eyes alighting on De Luca as the yo-yo landed solidly in his palm. He smiled sadly as he continued to sing._

_De Luca's eyes widened. "Santiago?" he asked, laughing incredulously. "What are you doing here?" _

_Santiago shook his head, the small, sad smile still on his moving lips. He didn't stop singing. It wasn't until this point that De Luca thought that he could hear the words, but as soon as he reached out to them, they fled. _

"_Santiago—" he called out._

_The yo-yo dropped toward the floor in one, slow hypnotic movement, missing it by half an inch. Santiago turned as it rose back toward his outstretched fingers—_

—_but the yo-yo was in De Luca's hand. He stared at the small object lying in his palm, reflecting the harsh light from the naked lightbulb. _

_How long had it been since he had seen it? Santiago had loved it. He had had a talent with it that would have been competition worthy if— _

_A dark spot reflected on the shining green surface. De Luca realized that the music stopped. He looked up. Santiago hung from the ceiling, his feet dangled loosely beneath his still body, his face featureless. De Luca screamed as roots sprouted down and out of dirty sneakers and gnarled branches extended upwards, thorns protruding from lifeless fingers—_

—_and he was in his first parent's home, standing just outside the kitchen. His mother was standing by the counter with her back to him, a sharp knife in her hand as she divided the dough evenly. A pot of water was boiling on the stove. She sang softly,_

"Una mattina me sono svegliata,

Bella ciao, bella ciao, bella ciao, ciao, ciao

Una mattina me sono svegliata—"

_She turned, her almond-shaped black eyes boring into his as she spun the knife in her hand—_

* * *

><p>De Luca's eyes opened slowly, his head pounding and his vision fuzzy. The metal floor was no longer cold beneath his burning cheek. His entire body ached and his jaw hurt to move, but from dry lips came the final line of the verse:<p>

"_E ho trovato l'invasor…"_

He hissed from the pain in his throat, and the inhalation caused him to hack. When it abated, he clenched his hand into a tight fist.

They would escape. He would escape. He would get his team—and the kid, _wherever_ he was—out of this hell hole and back to Earth. No matter how long it took to fulfill the vow.

Even if he fulfilled it with his _final breath_—

* * *

><p>Ba'al accessed the results of the boy's blood test on the computer. They flashed on the screen. His eyebrows rose.<p>

That wasn't possible.

He stole a glance at the unconscious child behind him, scrutinizing the youthful, flushed face. His eyebrows furrowed.

_Was_ it possible?

He returned his gaze to the screen, quickly scanning the data and the results. There didn't seem to be a mistake in the computer's analysis. But that such a child could hold such a secret—

No, he would make one final test himself. And then he would decide whether or not the computer was telling the truth. The needles and test tube were uncontaminated. The computers cleaned his equipment daily, so there was no need to be concerned that the sample had been contaminated due to his containers. Extracting the capped test tube from storage, he used a needle to extract a small portion of the sample.

He placed the drop of the blood on a small plastic side. Then he punched some keys on the wall panel. A wall panel on the other side of the room rose up to allow a small apparatus to slide outward on a shelf. Walking over, he placed the slide on the surface, and then he looked through the magnifier.

Ba'al couldn't believe it. He didn't want to believe it—but here was the proof.

He exhaled deeply, partly from bewilderment and partly to stem the excitement. How was this possible? What did it mean, that the boy would have this in his blood? Was it the reason for his strength and his youthful appearance, or was there something more?

Ba'al shook his head. Once again, he couldn't answer those questions until the boy woke up. Perhaps there was something else that he could test in the meantime. He turned around—and stopped.

* * *

><p>Matthew had mixed dreams that night. When he awoke, he couldn't quite remember what he had dreamed, or whether or not his dreams were good or bad. He determined based on the sheen of sweat on himself that they had been fueled by his fears.<p>

Looking at the clock, he saw that it read 6:54 AM, six minutes before his first phone alarm was set to ring. He was unable to determine why he felt like he had slept in (despite his late night) until the memories of the day before came back to him, and he realized that his internal clock was running two hours ahead, making him believe that it was 8:54 AM, as it was in Ottawa. He had a little over an hour to make his decision, get dressed, and then go see General Hammond. Dragging himself out of bed, he looked around the room, but he didn't see Valor. He peeked over into Valor's open carrier, and the cat was still inside, curled up. He must have felt worse than Matthew had thought if he hadn't left the carrier all night; Valor would never have voluntarily remained in the carrier if he could avoid it. Deciding to let the fluffy cat continue sleeping, he pulled out his clothing from his bag and went to the bathroom.

It was 7:40 AM when he had finished showering and dressing. He was grateful that someone had been notified that he was bringing a cat, because they had left a small litter box in the bathroom for Valor. Deciding that it was time for a verbal response from the creature, he walked over to the carrier. "Valor," he murmured.

Silence.

"Come on, Valor," he said quietly. "It's morning. Aren't you hungry or something? You're quieter than Al." Matthew reached his hand inside the carrier, gently stroking the white fur. The blood in Matthew's veins froze.

Valor was cold.

* * *

><p>Ba'al stared. He stepped quickly over to the boy and placed a hand over his mouth and nose. No, his eyes hadn't been deceiving him.<p>

The boy had stopped breathing.

Ba'al looked to the side of the table, and he watched a flickering white light at the edge of the row.

The boy was dying.

Five minutes later, the light went out.

The boy was dead.

Now what would he do? He could always put him in the sarcophagus, but what if—

The sound of approaching footsteps drifted into the room. "My lord?" a voice asked hesitantly.

Ba'al looked up, annoyed.

"I'm sorry to disturb you, my lord, but all of your Tauri prisoners are dead."

Ba'al exhaled. This was a bother. How did all of his Tauri prisoners die at once, especially at the same time as—_wait_. He looked back down at the boy. It was impossible—but the timing was too curious.

"Put this boy in my sarcophagus. Once he is awake, we will put the other prisoners inside as well."

"Yes, my lord."

It was a farfetched theory, but a theory nonetheless.

* * *

><p>His brother was dead.<p>

His twin was _dead_.

_Alfred was dead._

The words repeated themselves over and over in Matthew's mind. It was true that nations could regenerate, could come back from beyond the grave as long as their nation stood. America was standing, so he shouldn't have been concerned. If Alfred had died, he would come back to life.

His first dream flashed into his mind, and Matthew shivered. The shiver spread to goosebumps across his forearms as he stared at the dead Valor.

He had never known of the animal avatars to die. Linked to their national human avatars, it made sense that they would die if the national human avatar did, but the animal avatars had always been the anchoring force, the jumpstarting battery that—_but Valor was dead._

Matthew couldn't believe it. He refused to believe it. There was _no way_ that—

Taking a deep breath to slow his racing heart, Matthew held it for several seconds and then released it. Hyperventilating would not do him any good, least of all Alfred. No, his brother was lost somewhere, and if he was lost, then he would be found.

Was this an act of war? Matthew couldn't be sure. What if he got his nation involved without knowing what was going on and—but Alfred—Alfred was in trouble—but what could _he_ of all people, the quiet, the unnoticed, the invisible and the forgotten actually even hope to _do _when _no one_—

"_Think about Daniel."_

* * *

><p><span>AN: We're kinda sorta progressing forward now in our interim between Day Two and Three! 8D *shot*

Notes!

**[1]:** A lot was happening in this section that might have confused some readers, so I put it in one note so that the numbers wouldn't distract. Rodriguez is praying what in English is known as the Rosary, a Roman Catholic prayer which can be prayed using its beaded namesake (or fingers, like Rodriguez). A combat rosary is made using string. There are several prayers that make up the Rosary, but he is praying (in Spanish) the Hail Mary, the most prevalent prayer of the Rosary. Medallions (which come in varying sizes, materials, and images) are common within the Roman Catholic faith, and Rodriguez had one of _la Virgen de Guadalupe_, the apparition of the Virgin Mary of Guadalupe that appeared as an Aztec princess in Mexico to Juan Diego. She is very beloved by Catholics in Mexico, and Rodriguez, whose family is of Mexican descent, follows the tradition. I'll add individual translations for the prayer if they're wanted.

If you didn't figure it out, the song that De Luca hears/sings is the first stanza to "Bella Ciao," an old Italian folksong that is still sung today. I understand that it's controversial, though, and I respectfully request no fire-breathers. I'm using it as a rousing song (although, given the time-frame that De Luca's mother would have sang it, it would have been in the WWII anti-fascist context). It's used with political affiliations _because_ it's rousing, but I'm using it for the rousing aspect but without political affiliations. Everyone happy now? Fantastic. :)

I'm very sorry again for the long wait. Life has been crazy, and this was a beast that I struggled with, so I wanted to post it before the holidays became too crazy. Thank you for your patience and for all of your support, because it's meant the world. And if you came this far to decide that you're done, then hey, thanks for reading this far!

One last thing: I have posted a poll on my profile concerning future projects (one choice is this story). If you're anonymous and would like to vote, you may leave a vote in a review in the story of your choice. If you have an account, then please vote at the poll. That will help me to keep my tallies straight (and while I can't force you to an honor system, I can hereby ask, beg, and otherwise plead that you please only vote through one method, regardless of the route.) Thank you!

Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays to all~


	18. Part the Eighteenth

A/N: Happy New Year! And look—it's three weeks until the second anniversary of this story! 8D (I could wait until then, but I kind of have this ready-ish, and I can't say when the next will be close to ready, so~)

With that said, this series began, like, 85:15 in _Stargate SG-1_'s favor. Rest assured that I'm trying to balance the crossover, but this story takes place before the Gate Alliance Treaty, which makes balancing at this point difficult. It is starting to balance (hopefully), though, however slowly. Shifting, shifting~

No ending author's note this time. I'm posting this before it's been beta-ed. I hope that you enjoy and share your thoughts, and please visit the poll on my profile!

Disclaimer: I do not own _Hetalia Axis Powers_ or _Stargate SG-1_. They belong to their respective owners. I am making no money off of this fanfiction. It is for entertainment purposes only.

* * *

><p><span>Into the Wild Blue Yonder—Part the Eighteenth<span>

_Ba'al's Outpost_

Ba'al had watched as his _lo'taur_ lowered the dead child into the Sarcophagus. The golden doors had closed, and then Ba'al had summoned his First Prime to the Central Chamber. When he arrived, he listened to his First Prime's reports about the prisoners' interrogations—which unfortunately had yielded nothing useful at this point, only a repeated report that were on a reconnaissance mission and believed that they had been ambushed, those unfortunate souls—and the current state of his army, which had since regrouped and was keeping a watch on the outer reaches of the base. Satisfied, Ba'al dismissed him. Leaving the Central Chamber, Ba'al traveled several hallways before, turning a small hieroglyph, opened the passageway to his private quarters and ordered his _lo'taur_ that he was not to be disturbed.

He walked inside the high-ceilinged room, a high-backed chair to one side and several reclining couches. Choosing instead to pace, he walked around the knee-high wide table, thinking. He had suffered some losses in the air and ground troops, but they were not too worse for the wear, unlike his enemies. He had decimated the dual fleet of Mictlantecuhtli and Huitzilopochtli, although it was too bad that his guards hadn't discovered the whereabouts of Mictlantecuhtli. Mictlantecuhtli had run toward the Stargate when Ba'al had broken through his air support, but he hadn't found the Goa'uld. His guards had found a symbiote near the deceased host, but Ba'al wasn't convinced completely. He had left a small contingent of Jaffa behind to continue the search, but the newest report was that they had found nothing else.

In his time, Mictlantecuhtli had been not only a dangerous but a sly Goa'uld. At the time of Tezcalipoca's betrayal, he had been on the cusp of gaining the status of System Lord. He may have fled the battle when Ba'al broke through his air support, but that didn't mean he was cowering. Mictlantecuhtli had taken risks and pushed boundaries in his day that other Goa'uld wouldn't normally attempt, even things that might have surprised Ba'al, and Ba'al didn't think that time in stasis had changed him. He wouldn't be satisfied until he had witnessed the death of the resurrected Goa'uld with his own eyes and preferably by his own hand. He had ordered the dead Jaffa and symbiote brought back; when they arrived, he would revive them, learn what he needed, and then end the matter. It was necessary when dealing with Mictlantecuhtli. On the other hand, Huitzilopochtli would have been annoying free, but he was more arrogant than cunning, like Apophis, but bloodthirsty, like Sokar. As long as the captured Goa'uld was kept under surveillance and guard, Ba'al wasn't that concerned.

Walking toward the far wall, Ba'al reclined in his high-backed chair, his arms on the arm rests, thinking. He wasn't sure if there had been other Goa'uld fighting with Mictlantecuhtli and Huitzilopochtli. Goa'uld with the aim of becoming System Lords were by nature independent, but that didn't mean that they couldn't work together, and these Goa'uld had had a tendency to be a multi-headed serpent. In the old days, Huitzilopochtli had been the head, and Mictlantecuhtli had been deadly, but chose to work under him. There had been an assortment that came and went under Huitzilopochtli after he overthrew Tezcalipoca, and more had been overthrown in his climb. The big question now, however, was whether Huitzilopochtli was still the head or if someone else was directing them. He had used 'us,' after all. Who knew who had released them?

Ba'al wasn't sure who had released them, but he had an idea. Going over to the small table, he tapped on it, opening a panel. A small object lay in the center pocket, and Ba'al picked it up gingerly. He had pulled it off of Huitzilopochtli. Ba'al hadn't yet asked him what it was, but technological innovation had not been Huitzilopochtli's forte. If he remembered correctly, that pastime had belonged to Tlaloc. Had Tlaloc returned as well, or had he and Mictlantecuhtli merely robbed the dead? Ba'al turned it over in his hands. It could fit on his palm; it was quite small. It appeared to be made of naquadah, given its dark-gray color. A small, round device with rectangular facets and a red jewel in the center, it appeared to be a dual-sided, miniature Stargate dialing device, but who knew what it actually did.

As much as he would like to press the buttons and find out, Ba'al would much rather determine for certain that it wasn't a bomb. He would run it through a computer simulation when he returned to his laboratory. Remembering the battle and his soldiers' reports, however, Ba'al had an idea of the object's potential, and he hoped that he was right. If he was, it was a very brilliant contraption, if an extremely risky one.

A knock sounded on his door. Frowning, Ba'al looked up to see his _lo'taur_, his eyes on the floor. "Did I not say that I didn't wish to be disturbed?"

His _lo'taur_ did not raise his eyes when he responded, "Forgive me, my lord. I had received word that your prisoner will awaken soon."

Ba'al nodded. "Return to your quarters until I call you." The _lo'taur_ nodded and departed. Ba'al didn't want his _lo'taur_ anywhere near the boy—or any Tauri, for that matter. He had no desire to lose a second one. He returned the device to a locked drawer and left his quarters.

Entering the room with the sarcophagus a moment later, Ba'al stood to the side as the sarcophagus withdrew. Two guards entered behind him. After about a minute, the sarcophagus doors opened, and one of the guards stepped forward to the still figure, reaching forward and grabbing him by the upper arm. "Get up!" he commanded.

The boy's head lulled forward, and the guard, his eyes widening, dropped the body. It collapsed into the sarcophagus, a dull _tink_ resounding as the glass pieces on the boy's face collided with the sarcophagus wall. The guard turned around. "M-my lord," he stammered. "He—The sarcophagus, it—"

"The boy is dead?"

The guard nodded fearfully, and Ba'al frowned. That was impossible. Gliding forward, he leaned down, tapping the boy's face. The skin was cold. His eyebrows furrowing, Ba'al pressed his fingers into the boy's neck and waited. There was no blood flow.

The boy was most assuredly dead.

But that was impossible. The sarcophagus had never failed to revive anyone. Was it broken? Signaling to the guards, he pointed toward the door and ordered, "Get out."

"My lord? But—"

"Leave."

They bowed and left immediately. Once the door had closed, Ba'al knelt beside the sarcophagus and, turning an ibis hieroglyph, opened the side panel. He examined the crystals, but although one was low in power, it would have affected only the backlighting, not the release of naquadah to instigate the resurrection process. Furthermore, none of the crystals were broken. Examining the naquadah core and generator, there appeared to be no damages, no short-circuiting in the wires that would have prevented transfer of naquadah. There was no sign that it had overheated, either; there was a special coolant to prevent overuse. He closed the panel and stood.

The sarcophagus was in perfect order. It was impossible—but the boy had not revived.

Ba'al examined the body, his eyes narrowing slightly when, turning the boy's face towards him, he saw that the glass lens within the left wire frame had a crack. It must have occurred when the guard dropped the boy. He would execute the guard later. Other than that—and the fact that the boy was _dead_—Ba'al didn't see any anomalies. Until he readjusted the body back into the sarcophagus.

Dryness. Ba'al rubbed his finger gently against the boy's cheek again. The skin was slightly rough. It was normal for a body to decay, but the Tauri body was mostly water. Unless it was in a hot place, like a desert, that would naturally dry the body, it was likelier to rot in its decomposition process. This body was drying. When Ba'al pulled back his hand and examined the faint whiteness on his fingertips, he realized that this was more than drying—it was almost… _flaking_.

The boy was decomposing by _flaking apart_, as though his body was undergoing a rapid decomposition process in a desert. Or as if he was paper, like ancient scrolls left too long in a dusty library.

This was unprecedented. Ba'al had never witnessed a creature's decomposition occur in this fashion. Exhaling deeply, Ba'al recalled the guards and ordered the boy to be moved back into his experimentation room. If the boy was going to disobey by dying instead of resurrecting, then the least that he could provide was an opportunity to study the results as they occurred. As they left, he ordered a guard to bring one of the prisoners—it did not matter which—and revive them. It wasn't as though the sarcophagus was going to revive the boy, but at least it had proven to resurrect the other Tauri prisoners. If anything, the resurrection attempt might have made the boy's condition worse.

Ba'al had attempted the resurrection with the theory that the prisoners were connected together, and that the boy's death had led to theirs. His theory was obviously wrong. If nothing else, he would have an opportunity to dissect the body. He wanted a thorough understanding of this creature's physiology—just in case there were others like him.

* * *

><p><em>Earth<em>

_Stargate Command_

Major Carter sat down with a deep sigh. She had looked over McKay's report, and while it made sense that an outside device had caused the malfunctioning of the Stargate and appeared to have hindered its dialing capabilities remotely, she didn't understand the "undecoded data" and backlog that McKay had noted. McKay's report noted the data as trivial, but it bothered Carter.

It didn't bother her more than the fact that the events of the past two days had happened, but given the strangeness that she was still attempting to assimilate—_how was it scientifically possible for a country to have a national personification?_—she decided that it was best to leave no stone unturned, no matter how insignificant it appeared to be. This was all simply another puzzle, and by golly, she would figure it out, even if she was only thinking now because she had had a moment to sit. Her heart was saying that it was true, her head was saying that it was impossible, and it was confusing the heck out of her.

If she didn't sort it out, she might scream. But there was time for screaming later.

She started by going over the data feed in the Dialing Computer program, comparing her findings with McKay's report and finding no discrepancies. The only strange things were indeed the two separate streams of "undecoded data" and the backlog of data in the dialing computer. When Carter attempted to work through the coding of the first, she couldn't determine what it was. Maybe McKay was right and it was the signature of the unknown device in the database? But it had to leave _some_ sort of signature, didn't it? And why was there a backlog that the dialing computer had needed to process immediately following the termination of the connection with P9X-534? Was it really the remote influence of an external device? Why hadn't that device been reactivated if that was the case?

Carter ran her fingers through her short blond hair, inhaling deeply. Maybe there were too many questions. Maybe she should wait until her dad arrived to see what ideas he and the Tok'ra might have, or should she bounce ideas off of McKay? The former was preferred, but the latter was on hand... even if she _really_ didn't want to go to McKay.

Carter was still undecided when Colonel O'Neill walked in. "Hey," he greeted. "Is it earthquake season or something?"

"…Earthquake season?" Carter asked slowly, turning her chair around so that she could face O'Neill.

The colonel nodded. "Yeah, the news this morning said that there was an earthquake in Texas near the border—which apparently was strange—and in the D.C. area a short while ago."

"How strong were they?"

"I don't remember. I guess that they were small since he didn't mention damage, but they were large enough to mention on TV, anyway."

Carter hummed. "I don't know about the border region, but it's not unheard of to have earthquakes in the DC area. I haven't heard it being some kind of earthquake season, though. Why do you ask?"

O'Neill shrugged. "I was just thinking about yesterday, and what that captain said, about never getting earthquakes in San Antonio. But then the weather guy didn't appear too concerned when he went on to talk about sun and rain and other stuff like that, so I guess that it doesn't matter." O'Neill shrugged, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "So, you find anything?"

She shook her head and exhaled exhaustedly. It was almost 0730, and she didn't have much time left before everyone began arriving, but she had wanted to be at least a_ step_ closer to an answer… "I _wish_," she said. "The only discrepancies I have are literally two unrecorded 'blanks' in the database, unexplained backlogs of data. There is _nothing_ that I can find to explain what happened."

O'Neill stuck his hands in his pockets and looked over the computer, pretending to read the stream of computer data as he rocked on his heels. "And just what were you hoping to find?"

"I don't know," Carter replied, sighing. "This is going to sound crazy, but I just feel that something's wrong."

O'Neill turned his gaze back to her. "Wrong?" he asked sarcastically.

She rolled her eyes but nodded. "Yes, sir, but something wrong in how I'm reading the dialing program. I just don't know what it's trying to interpret. _Something's_ wrong."

There was a moment of silence, and then O'Neill glanced around the room. After ensuring that there was no one and that the immediate space of the hallway appeared to be empty, he said, "Well, Alfred is missing."

Sam nodded, accepting his existence as more than a cheerful young man for the moment. "I know, but I'm talking about something _else_. Like something that I've overlooked."

"Like what?" O'Neill gestured to the empty room and then the computer. "You're the genius who wrote that program when we didn't have a DHD to make the Stargate work. After our nation falling through the Stargate, I'm not entirely sure what else you could need to look for."

Carter leaned back in her chair with a sigh, running her fingers through her hair again. Was it really so simple as Alfred (if she fully accepted that without some sort of scientific proof)—_wait_. She paused, her eyebrows furrowing as memories of the two previous days ran through her head. Slowly, she turned to O'Neill. "What did you just say, sir?"

O'Neill raised an eyebrow and shrugged. "I don't know. What did I say?"

"About Alfred falling through the Stargate—" Carter couldn't even finish her sentence before she was out of her seat and racing out of the door. "You're a genius, sir!"

"_I am?"_

* * *

><p>General Hammond looked up from his paperwork when he heard firm knocking on the door. "Come in," he called.<p>

McKay entered. "General Hammond," he began as the officer looked up from his paperwork, "I have a complaint."

General Hammond gave him a look. "You have a what?"

"A complaint, sir, and I must make it quite strongly." McKay took a steadying breath and then, looking straight into General Hammond's face, said, "Sir, you have ordered a visitor to share a room with me."

General Hammond nodded. It was true, although he hadn't been aware that McKay had already received the news. Apparently, he was an early riser that morning. "Yes, I have."

"I want him out."

General Hammond raised an eyebrow. "And just why is that?"

"Sir, I refuse to share my room with anyone without prior consent."

General Hammond almost laughed. If that were the case, nothing would happen on his base at all. "Do you have a particular problem with Mr. Williams?"

"Well, no," McKay said.

"So you haven't met him yet."

"No," McKay drawled out slowly as he shifted, "but I refuse to share a room with him and his _cat_."

"McKay, you're not giving me anything to go on here."

"I don't _need_ anything to go on," McKay exclaimed. "He'll annoy me. I don't want him in my room!"

General Hammond exhaled. So much for a subdued McKay. The Russian Obedience Training in Moscow had failed after all. And Williams wasn't even in McKay's room yet. "I'm sorry, McKay, but until you can give me a _good_ reason for why he shouldn't stay with you—"

"—I'm allergic to cats."

General Hammond raised an eyebrow. "Since when have you been allergic to cats, McKay?"

McKay shrugged. "It's, eh, a side-effect of being deathly allergic to citrus."

"_Really_, now? I've never heard of that." General Hammond rolled his eyes. Swiveling his chair, he reached for the white phone on the wall. "Let's call Dr. Frasier—"

"_No!"_ McKay exclaimed. General Hammond halted, an eyebrow raised. McKay bounced on the balls of his feet, and then he threw his hands in the air. "All right! I'm not allergic to cats. But I _refuse_—"

Rapid knocking sounded on the door, and General Hammond called out, "Come in."

The door whooshed open. "General Hammond, I—" Carter exclaimed excitedly before she halted, seeing McKay. "I'm sorry, sir," she apologized to General Hammond. "Am I interrupting something?"

General Hammond shook his head. "You aren't, Major." McKay attempted to protest, but General Hammond sent him a stern look, and the civilian silenced. "Now, what's the problem?"

"I think that I've figured out what the device does."

General Hammond's eyebrows rose. "You have?"

Carter nodded. "Yes, sir. And quite honestly, I don't know why any of us didn't realize it sooner."

McKay scoffed. "How could you have figured it out? There was _nothing_ to determine what it did beyond mess with the Stargate, only unrecorded data in your dialing program amidst a horrendous backlog. Which I'm sure you found when you reviewed it."

Carter shook her head. "You're right. But there were two actions that happened the day of the assault that weren't supposed to happen, and the times of _both_ correspond to the unrecorded data."

General Hammond looked at Carter sharply. "Are you—"

Carter nodded. "I am."

McKay huffed, frustrated. "Will someone _please_ explain to me what's going on?"

Carter turned to McKay. "If someone dials an incoming wormhole, is it possible for someone from our side to pass through the Stargate?" she asked.

McKay snorted. "Of course not. It goes against the flow of the time-space continuum. You'd disintegrate before you reached the other side. Go against the flow, _hah_."

Carter gave him a piercing gaze, and McKay almost shifted. She said, "What if I told you that it happened _twice_ during the assault? When _two people_—at two separate times—traveled from our side to P9X-534 when the wormhole was connected to our Stargate?"

McKay's eyes widened. "That—that's impossible! There's _no way_ that—"

Carter nodded. "So we _thought_."

General Hammond looked between his two leading Stargate experts. "Are you positive, Major?"

Major Carter nodded, her words beginning to tumble out in her haste. "There's no other explanation, sir. I think that the backlog was caused by too much data coming into the dialing computer. It's never been programmed to run simultaneous entrances and exits—it's _impossible_. That's what we _knew_, but," Carter took a deep breath, "if I'm right, sir, then it was the _backlog_ that caused the computer to stall, not the device acting remotely, if the device was designed to work with a DHD, which can handle much larger streams of data than our computer." She shook her head incredulously. "As much as I hate to admit it, I think, this time, it _was_ my program."

McKay said nothing, and Carter looked at him in surprise. He was running his hand through his hair, muttering to himself and pacing in a tiny circle at the corner to General Hammond's desk. The General watched the Canadian astrophysicist before saying, "McKay."

"It's just not possible. It can't be. It goes against _all_ of the laws of astrophysics. But—"

"_McKay."_

McKay looked up. General Hammond gestured toward the door. "I think that you'd prefer to think in front of the database or someplace where you can check data with."

McKay nodded absently, and then he walked slowly out of the door, shutting it jerkily behind him. General Hammond shook his head. "I think that you broke his mind, Major." The general exhaled, and then he returned his focus to Major Carter. He asked again, "Are you positive?"

"Well, I can't think of any other possibility," Carter said. "It completely changes _everything_ that we ever thought was possible about astrophysics, but—"

"Why did none of us realize this sooner?" This was _basic_ Stargate lore. Heck, it was basic Stargate lore that _he_ understood.

Carter shrugged helplessly. "I don't know, sir. The only explanation I have is that maybe Alfred's being shot affected us more than we thought. The amazing thing, though, wasthat it affected even our thought-processes, where _none_ of us doubted that he was alive when, by all rights, he should have been dead…"

General Hammond exhaled deeply when Carter trailed off. "I think that you're right," he said. He paused for a moment, and then he asked, "But if that occurred due to the open Stargate, is it possible for us to know that in the same way now?" Now that Alfred was someplace else?

Major Carter shrugged again. "Perhaps. I don't know. I mean, it's possible, but—"

The alarms blared throughout the base as the red signal lights lit up. Sgt. Harriman's voice echoed over the loudspeaker, _"Unscheduled off-world activation. I repeat, unscheduled off-world activation."_

General Hammond stood up. "That'll be the Tok'ra." They hadn't given a definitive timeframe other than the morning. He began to move around his desk, but then his white wall phone rang. He picked it up. "Yes?" He nodded, listening. "All right, then. They have permission to enter." He hung the phone back up and, turning to Major Carter, said, "The Russians have just entered our airspace. They'll be on base shortly."

"That's fast."

"Yes, it is. They're about an hour early." He thought, _Their pilot must have a lead foot on the gas pedal, someone miscalculated time zone changes, or this is the Russians' idea of a joke. _Looking at the clock, General Hammond saw that it was 0749. That didn't give him much time. "I'm scheduled to meet with Mr. Williams at 0800, and I would like to process him before Colonel Chekov arrives. Would you mind going down for me to greet your father and the Tok'ra and then escort them to the Debriefing Rom?"

Carter shook her head with a grin. "I would be happy to, sir."

* * *

><p>Jack walked toward the Commissary. He had wanted to ask Carter if she was hungry for breakfast, but she ran off, and he hadn't seen her since. He thought about searching for Daniel and Teal'c, but he didn't want to go all the way to their offices or rooms if they were already eating.<p>

He walked into the Commissary and looked around the room. He didn't see them, so he turned to the line. The person in the middle complained about the cereal having run out and one of the staff went to the back, but none of the people in the line resembled his teammates. No Daniel or Teal'c. If he wanted to have breakfast with anyone, he'd have to go find them. Or eat by himself. He didn't prefer that—that's why they were in _teams_, after all—but he would if necessary. Such as when Teal'c was off-world and Daniel and Carter forgot what it meant to eat because they were so deep into their work.

Given that Daniel would likelier work through breakfast, Jack was about to settle for just Teal'c when the alarm began blaring. That would probably be the Tok'ra. So much for breakfast. He turned to head toward the Stargate Room when the server who had left to the back to check for cereal came tearing out from behind the counter and grabbed his arm.

"I—It—I—" he stammered, tugging furiously on Jack's sleeve.

"I need to go!" Jack insisted. Couldn't the man hear the alarm and _let go_?

The man shook his head emphatically, his grip unyielding. "Please—_the freezer—_!"

Eyes rolling upward and caught between two places, Jack allowed himself to be dragged behind the shining metal serving counter. Jack followed him through a swinging door and then the storage room until they reached the back-most freezer. The man halted, pointing jerkily toward the door. "It—there—"

Jack took a deep breath and then, reaching forward for the door handle, turned it. Opening the door, he shook off the blast of cold air and cautiously peeked inside. His eyes widened. "Call Dr. Frasier!" he ordered. _"Now!"_

The man didn't need to be told twice.

* * *

><p>General Hammond had just resumed his paperwork when there was a knock on the office door. He glanced at the clock. It was 0759. "Come in," he called.<p>

An airman opened the door. "Sir, Mr. Williams wishes to speak with you."

_Good._ "Show him in."

The airman beckoned into the hallway, and Matthew stepped around him hesitantly into the doorway. General Hammond waved him in, and when Matthew stepped inside, the airman closed the door behind him. "Have you made your decision, Mr. Williams?" he asked.

Matthew swallowed thickly. Who knew that he would ever have a time in which he _prayed_ not to be contacted by his own Prime Minister? He felt like he was about to caught with his hand in Arthur's biscuit tin, and that was a feeling that he had _never_ expected to feel again. He shut his eyes, clenched the folder tightly in his fingers, and then he took a deep, steadying breath.

Suddenly, General Hammond saw that all of Matthew's tension passed out of him. Looking the general squarely in the eyes, he said, "I'm going to sign, sir."

General Hammond nodded and said, "All right, then." He gestured for the folder, but Matthew shook his head. Setting the folder on the table and opening it, General Hammond saw that it wasn't signed yet. Matthew had probably wanted to sign it in his presence, and he was fine with that. Or perhaps the boy hadn't fully made up his mind until _after_ he had entered his office. Regardless, he handed Matthew a pen. Matthew took it, stared at the form for another moment, bit his lip, and then lowered the tip of the pen to the paper. A second later, the form was signed.

General Hammond looked over the paper, and then he nodded. "All's in order, then," he said. Standing up, he shook Matthew's hand, and he said, "Welcome, Mr. Williams, to Cheyenne Mountain Air Force Base, the home of—"

"—Stargate Command," Matthew murmured. His eyes widened, and his hand covered his mouth in surprise and slight fear, as though he hadn't controlled what he just said.

Before General Hammond could speak, alarm beyond imagining coursing through him, a firm knock sounded on the door. The airman opened the door again, announcing this time, "Sir, Colonel Chekhov is here to see you."

With no time left to question and no other way to send Matthew but through the front door, General Hammond said, "Send him in." The airman stepped back outside the office. Turning to Matthew, the general said firmly, "We'll finish this later, son." There was no way that he _wouldn't_ finish it later.

Matthew nodded, regaining his mental balance from the informational surge of ideas and images that flashed too quickly for his immediate comprehension. He turned slowly to face the door, blinking rapidly. There was—_something_—in this compound—it was called a _Stargate_, and it—

He stopped. He shivered. It flashed light and darkness and looked _just_ _like_—

The door opened wide, and Matthew felt cold goosebumps rising along his skin, pulling him from his reverie. A Russian colonel entered the room, but it was the tall figure behind him that halted Matthew, frozen as if he had just been struck by all the winds of winter.


End file.
